


Sexual Healing

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Strange Mixture Of Crack And Angst I guess :), Angst, Depression, Guilt, Humor, John Is So Done, M/M, Minor Injuries, Mycroft Has An Eating Disorder, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Paranoia, Poor Mycroft, Poor Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, Weight Gain, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: After Sherrinford, both Holmes brothers are struggling. Heavily… And then they both receive suggestions for a cure for their troubles, which turns out a little differently than the advisers had in mind.





	1. Suffering Holmeses And Strange Advice

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the old song by Marvin Gaye (snicker).
> 
> Warning: this story is not very nice to Molly Hooper and Elizabeth Smallwood, and there are some not very flattering thoughts about a few male characters as well. And I'm not even sorry :) 
> 
> I don't know how long this will get; perhaps there will be just two parts, perhaps three. This won't get updated so soon as I have just started the second part.

“Sir, here's the finished Walton contract.”

Mycroft nodded and stuffed the rest of his scone into his mouth. With little interest and while chewing the sadly dry pastry, he glanced at the paper that Anthea had brought him. He could see her out of the corner of his eye, standing in the doorframe with a look of deep concern.

He scribbled his signature under the pamphlet, which seemed to be flawless as did everything Anthea worked on for him.

When she was finally gone, he rummaged in his drawer until he found a chocolate bar. He eagerly ripped off the paper and ate it in one piece. When his phone rang, the number of the Prime Minister flashing up, he ignored it and wished the tea on his desk was whiskey. And then he mused what he would have for dinner. Whatever it would be, it had to be a lot.

When the Prime Minister called again, even the ringtone sounding impatient and angry, Mycroft answered with a sigh and listened to his boss's tirade with half an ear, wishing he was already at home, cuddled up in his bed with a deliciously fat pizza on his thighs.

*****

“Sherlock…! Don't!”

“I know it! This is not your hair, right?!” With a nasty snort, Sherlock reached out and pulled at the long curls. The woman squeaked and shied away, and suddenly Sherlock was standing there with a strand of blonde hair in his hand. With bloody roots… “Oh, um…”

“We're terribly sorry! You want a glass of water?” John patted the client's arm but she just grabbed her purse and ran out of the flat, crying loudly.

Sherlock looked at the ghastly hair in his hand and let it drop onto the floor with a grimace of disgust, shaking his hand so not a single hair would stick to it.

John was staring at him, his arms crossed. “This can't continue!”

“I really thought she was an imposter,” Sherlock mumbled.

“You think _everyone's_ an imposter!”

“Not you. _You're_ just annoying…”

“Thanks a lot! I get it, you're disturbed after all that happened, but you need to calm down and…”

“Ooh-hoo!”

Sherlock dropped his phone he had pulled out and shrieked.

“Oh, sorry, boys,” Mrs Hudson said with her hands over her mouth. “Just meant to ask if you like to have tea!”

John sighed.

*****

Finally the day was over… Mycroft slipped into his coat. Tried to close it. It didn’t really work. He needed a new one. But then – he could as well leave it open. It was cold outside but then he only had to walk a few metres towards a car when he had left the building. He grabbed his umbrella, remembering a time when its weight had been so comforting in his hand. And then there had been the clown, and the other scary figure, and the gun hadn't worked and the sword had been useless, and John Watson and Sherlock had mocked him for having been scared. For a moment he considered throwing it away but then he straightened his back and walked towards the door, the briefcase in one hand, the umbrella in the other one.

“I'm leaving,” he mumbled when he was crossing through Anthea's office.

She looked up from her ever-present phone. “I'll call your driver, sir.”

Mycroft nodded and continued his way. “Goodnight, Anthea.”

“Goodnight, sir.” Her voice sounded rather sad.

Without turning to her, he said, “Go home, too. There's nothing that can't wait until tomorrow.” And even if there was – they would certainly be informed, and if not, it wasn't important obviously.

Slowly he walked through high corridors. When he had almost reached the exit of the building, he heard quick steps behind him. “Mycroft!” a breathless voice called him.

He stood and closed his eyes with a sigh. “Sir Edwin…”

“I just talked to the Prince of Wales! He wants to speak with us tomorrow, 11am, meeting room number three.”

Mycroft shrugged. He would probably be free then. “Fine,” he said.

“You remember what it will be about?” The bald man's voice sounded pretty small.

Mycroft had no idea. “Mail my PA about the matter, be so kind.” And with this he left 70 Whitehall with slow, heavy steps.

*****

“It's staged, isn’t it?” Sherlock looked around on the darkening street, searching for cameras. Wasn't there a blinking light? Oh, no, there wasn't. But still!

He missed the worried look Greg Lestrade and John Watson exchanged, and the gesture John made with his hand.

“No, Sherlock. It's a real crime scene,” Greg said in a soothing tone. “This is a dead man and I need to know who killed him. And he wasn't killed _here_ ; there's almost no blood under him as it seems.”

“Hm,” Sherlock made, still deeply suspicious. Then he looked at the corpse (if it really was one). He poked at it with his shoe. Seemed dead. He raised his head and looked around. A few people were lurking behind the police cordon. Was anyone of them Eurus? Who could tell! They could _all_ be! The tiny man with the crutch! The voluminous woman with the wild hair! The little boy with the teddy bear!

“She's not here, Sherlock,” John mumbled. “She's locked up in Sherrinford for good.”

Sherlock snorted. “Yeah, right. That's what Mycroft thought last time, too!” Mycroft… Where had _he_ gone at all? Sherlock hadn't seen him for weeks. Perhaps Eurus had got him in the end! He had to call him! But probably Mummy would have let him know if anything had happened to Big Brother. If Eurus hadn't got the parents, too…

“He told us the video feed is monitored every thirty minutes by an agent, aside from the two guards who watch it non-stop!”

Yes, that was the last thing Mycroft had said to him before he had disappeared. He had been eating a slice of apple pie if Sherlock remembered correctly. Anyway! “The guards that are probably under her spell again already!” he hissed.

John sighed. “No, they're not, they get monitored, too, it's all fine!”

Sherlock gave him a doubtful look. Even if! Even if it wasn’t Eurus! Who knew how many more secret siblings he had! Cousins! Nephews! God – could Mycroft have secret children who were bearing a grudge against him?! Nah. He was as gay as they got. So was Sherlock, and a virgin above all, so it couldn’t be some depraved offspring of his own, waiting to bring him down.

But of course it didn’t have to be _their_ relative! There were so many other possibilities! A younger brother of Moriarty! A son of Magnussen! Culverton Smith’s real daughter! Oh God, yes! She had to be already creeping around him, waiting for her chance to murder him!

“I can't do this now.” He proceeded to leave.

“Sherlock, you can't let me down!” Lestrade yelled.

“Fine, I'll look at him in the morgue. There's nothing to see here anyway. He wasn't killed here and there's no evidence.” At least he hadn't seen any.

“Right! Fine! See you in the morgue then!”

“I'd better get back to grab Rosie; Mrs Hudson said she wants to go out for dinner,” John said apologetically.

Sherlock nodded. He would look at the damn corpse that didn’t interest him any more than who the current king was and then go home and lock the door of his bedroom behind him, hoping nobody would disturb him for as long as possible.

*****

Mycroft stopped before entering his house. The door seemed to be intact. The camera over the door was working. He had checked the feed in the car. No signs of a break-in.

He put the bag with the pizza down to open all four locks. Stepped inside and listened. There was no noise. He entered and immediately locked himself in systematically. Then he stored his umbrella and slipped out of his coat. Picked the bag with his dinner up and went to the living room. Took the bottle of whiskey and a glass and brought it all up to his bedroom. On his way he wasn’t attacked or laughed at, and he called it a success.

Five minutes later he was lying on his bed. He had slipped off his loafers and opened his trouser button, realising it was now way easier to breathe, and taken off all his clothes apart from his pants. And now he was devouring the first piece of the pizza, his eyes closed in pleasure. He hissed a bit of the topping, still rather hot, fell onto his chest, the cheese entangling in his chest hair. He picked it up and stuffed it into his mouth, rubbing over the greasy skin, and his gaze fell onto his rounded stomach.

It didn’t matter.

Soon he would have to visit his tailor though.

When he was busy with the third slice, he checked the video feed of Sherrinford. Eurus was sitting in her cell, brooding.

Good.

He wiped over the phone (and then wiped away the traces of fat) and checked where his brother was – or more precisely, his phone. It seemed he was heading towards the morgue, either up to doing an experiment or investigating for a case.

Fine.

He stuffed the rest of the pizza into his mouth and almost choked on it. When he had cleared his mouth enough to be able to breathe again, he drank some whiskey, and it burnt nicely in his throat.

He knew he should get up and take a shower and brush his teeth. But then he dismissed the thought. He would do that in the morning.

Ten minutes later he was asleep. It was 8pm.

*****

“Hi, Sherlock!”

Sherlock grumbled something and glanced at Molly Hooper out of the corner of his eye. Saw her straightening her ponytail. Her cheeks looked a little flushed.

“Here's the body Greg wants you to look at.” She pointed at the stretcher.

“Who would have thought,” Sherlock mumbled. “Nobody else here?”

“Oh, Greg will be here in a minute. He was held up.”

“I didn’t mean _him_!” Sherlock hissed.

Molly flinched. “No, well, nobody else is here. Apart from all the other doctors and the corpses and the patients.” She giggled nervously.

“Why are you babbling?” Sherlock looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Did you talk to her?!”

“To whom?”

“My sister!”

“No! Why would I! She's incarcerated, isn’t she?”

“Is she now…” Sherlock scrutinised her, but he didn’t find any sign that she had received a brainwash. Probably it was still because of this _'I love you'_ nonsense! Bah!

He turned to the corpse to examine it. He focused hard but he couldn’t see anything that would help the police. The man was in his forties, slightly overweight, killed by a single blow to the head. Without any more information about him, Sherlock couldn’t say anything. Why was Lestrade not here yet?! Why was he forced to waste his time here! Not that he had anything else to do but still!

“You… have lost weight.”

“Huh?” He turned to the pathologist again.

“And you're so nervous. John is very worried, says you don't eat and explode at everything...”

Sherlock snorted. “John can…!”

Molly blushed. “Perhaps you should talk to someone…”

“What, a therapist? Are you mad?! Don't you know they are never who they pretend to be?!”

She made a step back at his rage. “I just… Sorry… But… maybe… something else… will help.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “I'm all ears! What is your prescription? Fresh air? Vitamins? Eating my hat? Another jump off the roof? What?”

“Sex…”

“What?!”

Molly straightened her back. “It will calm you down. You will get rid of this… strange energy. And after that, you'll be able to think clearly again.”

Sherlock gaped at her. “And with whom, pray tell, should I practice this wonder-cure?” he asked when he was able to speak again.

“Um… What about me?”

Sherlock huffed out a nasty laugh. “Yeah, exactly what I thought! You are one of them! You want to make me crazy! But not with me!” He stalked towards the door. “And I'm _gay_!” he yelled before he almost crashed into DI Greg Lestrade, who raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Hey, what's going on here? And where are you going?”

“Away from this madhouse! Tell _her_ about your case! She knows everything best!” And with this Sherlock stormed out, his coat whirling around him and almost making him stumble when it got caught between his legs.

He puffed and huffed all the way home. Sex! How the hell should that help him?! Getting all sweaty and steamy and shoving his, his _thing_ into somebody's arse! Or even worse – somebody shoving _his_ thing into _his_ arse!

And then he realised that his _thing_ had taken notice of his thoughts in a most inconvenient way and he got even angrier. Molly and her brilliant ideas! There was nobody to do this with, even if it was possible to find some relief in it. Because of course it had to be a man, and John would hardly be up to it, and even if he would be – eeek! And he didn't know anyone else whom he would even allow to get near his _corpse_! Lestrade? No way! Too old and lipless and too stiff, and not in a good way! And straight after all! Anderson? He wanted to puke at the thought! Angelo?! Where was the next toilet? All the stupid, dull, ugly men, and he would let a stranger touch him only over his _own_ dead body!

A cold shower, that's what he needed!

*****

Mycroft was working on his reports. Mechanically, stoically, without having any interest in what he was reading, munching away on a large piece of cherry pie he had bought on his way to his office for a second breakfast.

He sighed when he heard a knock at his door. “Yes,” he said fatalistically when he had swallowed the current bite of the cake.

Anthea opened the door and poked her head in. “It's Lady Smallwood, sir; she wants to have a word.”

Mycroft thought fleetingly that she could have a certain word (namely 'no', or maybe 'go') but he nodded; what else could he do anyway. “Let her in.”

A moment later Elizabeth Smallwood stalked into his office in full glory, wearing a tight grey costume, a red blouse and high heels. Her hair was put into something that should probably look professional and seductive at the same time. She was in very good shape for a woman her age and she knew it, and Mycroft always felt like prey in her presence. It was a miracle of its own that a woman so smart could miss the fact that he was an absolutely homosexual man.

She had been on holiday for a few weeks and he couldn’t have said he had missed her a lot.

“Mycroft,” she purred – and then she stirred and narrowed her eyes. “You look horrible!”

He rolled his eyes. “Thank you. Did you want anything special?”

She sat down on the visitor's chair without having been invited. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing whatsoever.” _I just completely messed up my dangerous sister's containment, brought my brother and his friend, the single father, into an almost fatal situation, watched people die, got yelled at by Mummy and received a disappointed look from Father, not even mentioning the exasperation of the Prime Minister, and I can never meet my brother's eyes again, but otherwise, it's all fine._

She stared at him with an expression of pure disbelief, and then she glanced at the pie on his table and now she looked right-out disgusted. “You've gained so much weight since I last saw you!”

“And why should that be of any concern to you?” he retorted coldly. She had never really put her desire for him into blunt words, had just sent him longing glances and given him invitations for drinks he had never taken.

“I like you, Mycroft,” she said softly now, and he regretted his question. “You are so important for this country, and for me.”

“I can very well work for this country with a few pounds more,” he said with all the dignity he could muster, pointedly ignoring the part about her.

“Sure, but a handsome man like you…”

Mycroft sighed. “Was there anything you wanted to talk to me about?”

She completely ignored this absolutely legitimate question and reached out with her right arm and tapped her long red fingernails on the back of his hand. “What is plaguing you?”

Mycroft pulled his hand away with a shudder, suffering some scratches and thinking _'You mean except for_ you _?'_ But he had to work with her so he swallowed the snarky reply down and settled for not saying anything at all.

It didn’t discourage her in the least. “It's Sherrinford, yes? You're not used to making mistakes like this and get a hard time from our Prime Minister.”

 _Thanks a lot…_ Of course she had a point but it was hardly a good idea to insult the man you actually wanted to flirt with… Not that any other strategy would have worked…

“You need a distraction, Mycroft,” she continued, completely oblivious to his discomfort.

Mycroft put the rest of the pie into his mouth and chewed it rather noisily, feeling unusually brattish. That must be how Sherlock was feeling all the time!

“Not that!” she scolded him. “You need to challenge your body and get worked up so you can channel these negative energies.”

What sort of nonsense was she talking here? “I do work out on my treadmill,” he informed her when he was able to speak again. Not that he had done that recently. But he would again! Sometime!

“I wasn't talking about _sports_ , Mycroft.”

He furrowed his brow. “And what _are_ you talking about?” he asked, regretting it a moment later when he saw her suggestive smile.

“Sex, Mycroft,” she said bluntly, and while he was blushing furiously, he realised how much he hated the way in which she kept saying his name.

“I have to work now, so if there wasn't anything important…” he said with all the coldness he was capable of, turning to his computer.

She was not impressed by his icy tone in the least. “I can make you forget all the nastiness. I'm very good at making men forget…”

Dear Lord, who was going to save him now?!

And then the door opened after a short knock and the PM stormed into his office. Mycroft had never been so happy to see the man…

“Holmes, we need to talk about the meeting with the Prince!”

Oh, damn… He had totally forgotten about it. Hopefully Anthea was in the picture about what this appointment would be about. He called her in and she presented a printout with all the information he needed, and he gave her a grateful smile that was heartily returned, and he vaguely registered the lady leaving his office, looking grumpy and pissed off, and he forced himself to concentrate on his boss's stupid blathering, wincing every few seconds when the unwelcome picture of the lady's scrawny old body pressed on his popped up in his mind, and he could basically feel her nasty tongue in his mouth, and when even the PM noticed and asked – rather sarcastically – if he needed medical attention, Mycroft thought that an exorcism would probably be the better choice, but of course he assured his boss that he was perfectly fine, and he managed to focus on the matter at hand with all the willpower he could muster.

The day went on, and he was very relieved that Lady Smallwood didn’t return to him. But instead an unexpected visitor asked for having a talk with him when he came out of his meeting with a very laid back and pleasant Prince Charles – Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade with a shy grin on his face and a paper folder in his hand.

*****

Greg had known Mycroft for many years. Well, he didn't actually _know_ the man, and somehow he doubted anyone could claim doing that, apart perhaps from his ever-present (and very attractive) PA, but they had been standing next to quite a few hospital beds together and had talked over Sherlock's well-being more than once, mainly in the beginning of Sherlock's involvement with Scotland Yard when he had still been struggling with staying clean. Then, after coming back from the dead (and it wasn't easy to not resenting Mycroft – and Sherlock – for having kept him in the dark about the tiny fact that the detective wasn't actually dead), Sherlock had taken drugs again, for the Magnussen case, and then he had been shot and Greg had seen Mycroft standing stoically at the foot of his bed, watching the unconscious young man with stiff shoulders, just his eyes giving away his deep concern.

Greg had checked on Mycroft after the affair with the sister because Sherlock had asked him to do it, and very unsurprisingly, Mycroft had sent him away, letting him know he was completely fine, which he had decidedly not been but who was Greg to question his honesty?

So basically Greg had seen Mycroft only in times of worry and pain, and still he hardly recognised him when he saw him now. This man was a shadow of his former self, and a rather big shadow above all. He had gained at least fifteen pounds since the events of Sherrinford, and his suit was ill-fitting and crumpled. He needed a haircut rather urgently and he had shaved this morning but there were a few parts he had overlooked, making him look untypically scruffy. And that was just the physical change. A lot worse was that he looked haunted and frankly depressed. His eyes were sad even though he was clearly trying to appear like his usual composed and cool self. He wasn't. He was a troubled man and he needed help.

Just like Sherlock.

Which was why Greg had come to Mycroft.

Sherlock had always been unpredictable and restless, not even mentioning reckless, but now? He seemed to have developed some sort of frightening paranoia, and Greg was just waiting for the day when Sherlock would try to rip his face off because he thought he was Eurus, hidden by a mask… This couldn’t continue; John was at the end of his tether, and Greg was rather desperate as Sherlock was of little to no help for his cases in this condition. But even more important: he wanted to help the poor lad.

So since John and Mycroft were not getting along exactly well, he and the doctor had decided that he would talk to Sherlock's brother in the slim to non-existent hope that Mycroft would be able to help Sherlock, that he would know how to take the distress of his little brother. Of course both he and John knew that the brothers were not actually close to each other but Mycroft was their only hope.

And now he was looking at a man who seemed to be in an even poorer condition than the consulting detective. Greg felt some deep rage in his heart at the sister who had managed to turn her smart, superior brothers into suffering messes by her deadly games.

What was he supposed to say now? Could he even get out why he had come here?

But Mycroft was not so far gone to not deduce at once why he had schlepped himself to the Cabinet Office. Well, it wasn't that hard to figure out; they had always only spoken about Sherlock.

“Please sit down,” Mycroft rasped out, gesturing at the visitor's chair. “Anthea will bring us tea.” He gave his PA a pointed look and she nodded and disappeared with a smile.

She looked worried, too, Greg thought. Well, of course she did. He had no doubts that she was exceptionally loyal towards her boss. She had been working for him for ages – and didn’t seem to have aged a day in all this time while he discovered yet another bunch of grey hairs every morning, and Mycroft was losing them rapidly.

“Thank you,” he said and took a seat.

Mycroft walked around the desk and let himself fall into his creaking chair. “What can I do for you, Detective Inspector? Is he in trouble?” His voice clearly said he didn’t believe that as he would have been informed already if it was the case.

Greg sighed. “Not in this kind of trouble. He isn't using.”

“Then what?”

“He suffers!” Greg burst out. “He sees his bloody sister everywhere! He thinks everybody wants to harm and betray him, at least everyone he doesn’t know well. He's paranoid and can't concentrate on any cases anymore; yesterday he even thought the crime scene was staged! And John says he is exceptionally weird with female clients, and the majority of them leaves Baker Street screaming because of him.”

Mycroft's face had fallen more with every sentence, and it hadn't looked very cheerful to begin with. “I had no idea,” he mumbled, slumping in his chair.

Anthea knocked a moment later to bring the tea, gave them worried looks and disappeared again, quietly closing the door behind her.

“It's all my fault,” Mycroft mumbled darkly.

“No, it's _your sister's_ fault!” Greg corrected him. Probably not many people ever dared correct this man, but he couldn’t watch him blaming himself for something he definitely wasn't to blame for. “John told me about her past and what you did to protect the world from her. People in this prison disobeyed your orders and she took advantage of it. And then this murderous game when you went there… It must have been horrible…”

Mycroft huffed out something that sounded almost like a sob. He hastily drank from his boiling hot tea and grimaced. “Yes,” he finally brought out. “It really was. Poor Sherlock…”

Greg's heart clenched at the affection and desperation in his last words, knowing 'poor _Sherlock_ ' was only one half of the truth. “You haven't talked a lot to your brother since then?” He knew Mycroft hadn't as John had told him.

“Only when I informed our parents she's still alive. They were very upset and Sherlock… He tried to protect me from their wrath.” His voice sounded grateful and disbelieving. At least a change to the sadness and guilt from before…

And since then, Sherlock had become more and more peculiar. And Mycroft had sunken into depression.

“Can you talk to him now?” Greg asked him. That's why he had come here, and could it get worse with either of them? If Sherlock had even taken Mycroft's side towards their parents?

Mycroft just smiled sadly. “I'm sure I'm the very last person he wants to see or speak to. John…”

“…is completely out of his depth with him, Mycroft.” Using the man's first name felt rather strange but Greg had to get through to him. _Sherlock_ needed help. _Mycroft_ needed help. They were _brothers_! The conclusion was clear, wasn't it? “He has a little child to worry about. Sherlock is developing into a really strange creature, and that's me saying that, who's known him for a long time! Neither of us has any idea how to help him.”

“Neither do I…” Mycroft sounded right-out hopeless.

Greg felt deep sympathy for this broken man with the weight of the world on his shoulders but he had to insist. “Just give it a try, please! He must become, I don't know, grounded, and if anyone can talk some reason into him, it's you.” Or it would have if Mycroft had still been the Iceman, the British Government how Sherlock had always called him. Right now he was… a lost soul. Just like Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed. “All right. I will text him to come over this evening.”

“Awesome! Thank you so much. Um… perhaps… if you don't mind…” Greg raised the hand with the folder about the murder Sherlock had been supposed to solve for him.

Mycroft produced something that vaguely resembled a smile. “Of course. Let me have a look.”

*****

“That went pretty well,” John mumbled, shifting Rosie on his thighs.

“What do you want – I solved the bloody case!” Sherlock's voice was a tad shrill and the look in his eyes was a mixture of defensiveness and rage. He was sitting in his armchair with crossed arms like the biggest petulant child John had ever seen.

“Yeah, you did. After making sure she doesn’t have a knife in her sleeve or a gun in her panties…”

“It could have been!” Sherlock hissed.

“She was at least eighty!” She had been grateful for being told that her son was probably alive and living in Peru because of his tax problems, but she had cast a frightened glance at Sherlock again before she had left.

Sherlock huffed.

John sighed. And he wondered if Mycroft would actually contact Sherlock for a meeting like Greg had texted him an hour ago. Not that he had much hope that Mycroft would be able to cure Sherlock from his sudden descent into misery and paranoia, especially as he, according to Greg, wasn’t feeling well himself, but who else to ask?

John had been trying to cope with it for weeks now, had done his best to calm Sherlock down and guide him back onto the path of what passed as normality for Sherlock, and Greg and Mrs Hudson had bravely done the same, but it hadn't worked. And John had tried not to snort when Sherlock had told him, furiously, about what Molly had offered as a therapy. My God! Had she still not realised Sherlock was gay?

For a short while John had considered that Sherlock was not that immune to female attractiveness though when he had found out Irene Adler was still alive. But he had asked Sherlock about her again before going to Sherrinford, and Sherlock had just rolled his eyes and told him he had only claimed to reply to her texts sometimes to make John feel better about texting with Eurus, and he had made very clear that his attraction to The Woman had been a strictly intellectual one, for the first time actually speaking out that he was homosexual. Which meant that Molly, lovely, faithful and reliable Molly, didn’t stand a chance with him. Did she seriously believe he would even so much as touch her body, just because she had succeeded at forcing him to admit a love for her he didn’t feel in a situation they had thought meant life or death for her?

Perhaps sex _would_ be good for Sherlock though; he was not above admitting it. But with whom for God's sake! John wasn't gay and even if he had been interested in Sherlock in such a way, he would have never offered to lend him a hand, or his cock, or his arse, as it would make everything between them even more complicated. But as things were, Sherlock wasn't exactly drooling for him, and John couldn’t imagine ever having sex with a man, not even with a man as attractive – and crazy, and annoying, and currently actually frightening – as Sherlock.

And since they didn’t know any fitting candidate and it didn’t appear safe to let Sherlock alone with a stranger these days (or perhaps even ever), sex was out of the question, so some brotherly interference was the last resort of hope he and Greg had now. Mycroft was, after all, an expert at dealing with challenging people; he had seen his brother on his worst days of drug use and being on the loose, and if anyone could rule him in now, it had to be him.

So he straightened up when Sherlock's phone signalised a text, and from the eye-rolling Sherlock produced, he knew it had to be the expected text from his brother.

“God, what does _he_ want now?!”

“Who?” John asked innocently, stroking over his daughter's back.

“Mycroft! I thought he had fallen off the earth but yet, here he is _. 'Sherlock, my place, 8pm, if you could be so kind'._ ” Sherlock snorted.

“You should maybe go to him,” John said casually.

“Why should I? Taking another one of his stupid cases he could as well solve himself if he wasn’t so lazy?”

“Perhaps he's just lonely.”

“What?” Sherlock looked at him with deep suspicion – a rather familiar expression as of late. “Why are you saying that? You hate my brother!”

“Nah, I don't. He keeps wrecking my last nerve, like all Holmeses do but he was quite decent in Sherrinford,” John said, hoping to sound convincing. In fact he had his own suspicions that Mycroft wouldn’t have been overly sad if Sherlock had taken him by his word and shot John… Frankly, Mycroft didn’t have any reason to be very fond of him. John was the first to admit that sending Wiggins' people into Mycroft's house to scare him into being honest about Eurus, and being so nasty to him before he and Sherlock had left hadn't been exactly nice. And John's violence towards Sherlock, which he deeply regretted now, and for which he had heartily apologised more than once, had certainly not made Mycroft like him any better.

Mycroft was a very unusual man; his kidnapping of John in the very beginning spoke volumes; he was cold and weird, like Sherlock but without his charm, but John had soon realised that he deeply cared for Sherlock, and as John did this as well, he felt at least a bit of a connection with him. He had never shown this to the politician or whatever he actually was because he was so unnerving and arrogant, and Mycroft would in all probability disagree about them having _anything_ in common so Greg had definitely been the better choice to talk to him.

“You should visit him,” he insisted now. “Spend some time with him. What harm can it do?” Knowing Sherlock's state and his preference for mistrusting anybody now, this was a rather brave assumption, but surely Mycroft could manage? Even if he was feeling troubled, too?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “This is a conspiracy, isn’t it? You and Greg and Mycroft want me to…”

“God, shut up, Sherlock! Nobody is conspiring against you!” John flared, the past weeks of dealing with a Sherlock that was even more challenging than usual finally taking their toll. “Eurus is locked up and nobody wants to harm you! And now text your damn brother that you will see him later and be fucking nice to him for a change!” For a moment he thought that his choice of words was not actually appropriate with his baby on his knees, which was looking at him with wide blue eyes at this outburst, but he had enough now! And she couldn’t understand him yet after all and damn, if 'fucking' was her first word, he would deal with it when they got there!

Sherlock closed his open mouth with an audible noise a few seconds after John's unexpected rant. Then, to John's surprise, he nodded meekly.

“'kay.”

John did feel a bit sorry for yelling at him but since Sherlock had given in so quickly, it had probably been the right way to react to this latest nonsense coming out of the detective's mouth… “Fine. Tea?”

“You won't put anything in it, will you?”

John sighed.


	2. A Shocking Suggestion

Mycroft glanced at his pocket watch once more. Seven-thirty-five. Sherlock would be here very soon. If he showed up at all. Perhaps he would do it at ten. Or three in the morning. Who knew? At least he had answered him that he would come to Mycroft's place, but even his very short text had oozed exasperation.

Mycroft didn’t blame him. Not only because they had spent all of Sherlock's adult life bickering. He knew Sherlock had loathed him for dragging him out of drug dens. Not once had he thanked him for getting him out of trouble. Not even after the Magnussen disaster. Mycroft hadn't expected anything else. Especially as he had let Sherlock believe he had sent him to Eastern Europe to die, which he of course would have never let happen. He had wanted to punish Sherlock for being so stupid to get involved with awful Mary Watson to such an extent that he had killed for her, not even mentioning betraying the country, and it had scared him to watch Sherlock kill someone as if it meant nothing, reminding him of their sister. But of course Mycroft had already planned how to get him out before anything could go wrong; he hadn't told Sherlock though… And he had failed his brother so badly in dealing with the youngest Holmes sibling. He hadn't believed him when Sherlock had told him that he and the doctor had met her. He had only taken to go to Sherrinford, in disguise no less, to prove them wrong. Because what Sherlock had said to him before had hurt his very core… _John_ was his family. He, Mycroft, was just the one to mock and torture and forget about. Sherlock had just proven it again. Although deeply troubled, he hadn't reached out to him. He hadn't probably even noticed that Mycroft had been keeping away from him. But of course Mycroft didn’t deserve it any better. He had failed on such a scale that it was a wonder he hadn't been fired or beaten up by Sherlock, or his violent little sidekick John Watson. Mycroft wouldn’t have even tried to defend himself. He caught himself wishing that Sherlock would hit him; at least he would feel something then again apart from self-loathing and numb pain and acidic guilt.

He downed his whiskey – his third glass since coming home. He had brought a lasagne and eaten it within five minutes. His stomach was comfortingly full and his brain slightly dizzy from the alcohol. He leaned his head back, his eyelids becoming heavy after the good, heavy meal. He had almost fallen asleep after the shower he had forced himself to take already, and when he had shaved his stubble, he had hardly been able to keep his eyes open.

When the doorbell shrilled through the house, he woke with a start from a sudden slumber. Another glance at his watch told him it was eight-ten. Wow, Sherlock was almost in time!

He got up and dragged himself to the front door. He didn’t actually want to face baby brother. How was he supposed to help him? Sherlock would probably just laugh in his face and leave in a cloud of whirling coat and contempt.

But Greg Lestrade had asked him to give it a try and he would. He owed it to Sherlock. It was his fault that his brother was in such a state now!

He took a deep breath and opened the four locks to let his brother in, wishing he had thought of getting his hands on some chocolate beforehand to soothe his vibrating nerves.

*****

Sherlock, who had come to Mycroft's place, still fuming and wired up, had already opened his mouth to congratulate his brother on turning his house into a fortress, and it wouldn’t even have been mockery, but then his jaw dropped when he took in the sight in front of him. “My God, Mycroft! What happened to you?!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and even that looked rather sad. “Do come in, Sherlock, so you can insult me in the warmth.”

While his brother made sure the door was secured again, Sherlock was watching him in horror. His suit was way too tight for him, especially around the waist. His hair, albeit freshly washed, had not seen a barber for three, no four weeks and was uncharacteristically tousled, suggesting that he had woken up his brother from a nap in his armchair. The pale complexion was not doing anything for his pudgy face and his entire appearance oozed total loss of control.

Had Mycroft asked him here to help him? Why had he let himself go to such a degree?

“My God,” Sherlock mumbled, “they are after you, too!” It didn’t explain the weight-gain but it did explain all the locks.

Mycroft gave him a confused look. “Nobody's after me.”

“Then why this?!” Sherlock pointed at the barricaded door.

“Oh, this. It's nothing. Just precaution.”

The conclusion hit Sherlock hard. “It's because of me. And John. And Wiggins' people. I won't do that again! Why should I? It's over!”

“Is it now, Sherlock?” Mycroft scrutinised him. “Then why do you see our sister everywhere?”

Sherlock fumed. Who had told him?! Traitors! “That's something different! It has nothing to do with you! It's Eurus herself!”

Mycroft sighed and gestured down the corridor. “Let's go to the living room, brother. And Eurus is not going anywhere anymore. She gets monitored. Constantly.”

“Video feeds can be manipulated,” Sherlock said stubbornly. “It can show you pictures from hours or days ago!”

Mycroft winced but then he shook his head. “No, Sherlock. She won't do any harm anymore. I've put so many safety measures in place. She's not going to leave Sherrinford ever again, and she won't get the staff under control either. You can stop worrying about it.”

Sherlock stormed off and Mycroft followed him a lot slower, and even his steps sounded depressed.

“Care for a drink?” he asked when he entered the large living room, where Sherlock had already flung himself onto the massive black couch.

He sounded as if he'd had a few already, Sherlock noticed only now. He pondered about the offer for a moment. It was tempting to have some liquid goodie. Perhaps it would make all this shit that was happening more bearable! But then - he should stay sober and alert! Even if he was safe in Mycroft's house now – he would be going back later and a man who didn’t have his senses together was an easy aim!

But he took the glass when Mycroft poured him a generous shot of whiskey.

“Drink,” Mycroft said while sitting down next to him. “You look as if you need it.”

“Ditto,” Sherlock mumbled, and his brother gave him an ironic toast before downing his own booze, and Sherlock emptied his glass in one go too, enjoying the burn in his throat.

“More?” Mycroft asked with raised eyebrows; he had brought the half-full bottle with him.

Sherlock held out his glass in silent acceptance, and the next serving made him relax just a bit.

“It sucks,” he said darkly, slumped on the very comfortable couch.

“A toast on that,” Mycroft mumbled and emptied his own glass.

They sat together in silence for a moment until Sherlock demanded to know, “Who told you? Lestrade, the old chatterbox? Or our Doctor _What's-Wrong-With-Him_?”

A small smile tugged on the corners of Mycroft's mouth. “The former. But your dear John agreed on it with him.”

Sherlock snorted. He should bang their silly heads together! “He's just pissed off that I didn’t solve his damn case!”

“He gave it to me.”

“I should have known! And – solved it after glancing at the police report?” Like he had done with the hiker all those years ago.

Mycroft shrugged. “I think so. Was pretty obvious.”

“I didn’t have all the information!” Sherlock flared.

“Because you stormed off before he could give it to you.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes. Couldn’t stay in the bloody morgue any longer.” He was fuming again at the memory of this scene in the morgue. How dare Molly suggest having sex with her! And the worst thing about it was that he'd had a wet dream last night, about a faceless man shagging him into oblivion, and he had felt better in his dream afterwards! And woken up with sticky pants, feeling embarrassed, upset and horrible!

“Trouble in paradise?”

Sherlock gave him a confused look. “Huh? What paradise?” It was rather _hell_ out there!

“Well, you and Miss Hooper…”

Sherlock snorted. “Me and Molly? What? Have you killed all your brain cells with this,” he gestured at the whiskey, “or by eating yourself half to death? There is no 'me and Miss Hooper'! Not even _you_ get that I'm gay?!”

Mycroft shrugged. “I did think so, but then this Adler woman…” He poured himself another drink and filled Sherlock's glass as well.

“Fuck Irene!”

Mycroft winced. “Yeah, exactly…”

“Ah, I did nothing with her! She stimulated my brain and not…” He gestured southwards. “I've never done anything with anybody! And then bloody Molly comes along and says I should have sex with her so I can think clearly again!”

Mycroft spat out his whiskey and started to laugh.

“What?! That's not funny!” Sherlock flared. “Now I think of sex all the time and I'm less alert to all the dangers out there!”

Mycroft had calmed down again and wiped his mouth. “Lady Smallwood told me the same, blathering something about channelling bad energies or whatever.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Meaning you should do it with… her?!” The inevitable image that popped up in his mind made him want to crawl up the wall. Backwards. Instead he grabbed for his glass and let the burning fluid run down his throat as if it could erase the nasty picture.

“Yes,” Mycroft said with a shudder. “That’s some strange kind of diet she suggested, isn't it?”

“I need another drink!” Were the women around them all mad? Couldn’t they see they were both gay?!

Mycroft hurried to fill his glass once more. The bottle was almost empty now.

Strangely enough, Sherlock didn’t feel drunk. And his brother sounded rather more sober than when they had entered the room. Talking about ghastly sex seemed to have this impact on them! “Worst thing is… I think it could be true…” he said darkly. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps there was nobody out there, waiting to kill him. Perhaps Eurus _was_ locked away for good.

He couldn’t even say when he had started to feel so agitated. Everything had been fine right after Sherrinford. He had even thought of visiting their sister so they could perhaps play the violin together, and in his imagination he had seen himself going there, and she had been kind and nice, just smiling all the time, and their parents and Mycroft had been there and they were a happy family! And then he had read about the pregnant wife of one of the dead Garrideb brothers and how desperate the governor's wife's sister was and had recalled that Eurus had wanted him to kill Mycroft, and he had dropped this silly idea quickly. There had been a moment of closeness before she had told him where he would find John but really – she was beyond help! And then, little by little, he had started to see his sister in disguise just in anybody except for the people closest to him, and he didn’t even really trust them anymore! Probably he was just going mad… And what if a nice shag would get this out of him? He didn’t want to end up in an asylum! He wanted to solve cases and be brilliant!

“They are a bit crazy for us. Or pretty much,” Mycroft mumbled. “They see what they want to see. And Elizabeth sees beneath all the fat on my body and thinks she can… turn me back into my former self by… doing things with me.” He shuddered once more.

Sherlock looked up and down on him. “Why have you eaten so much, Mycroft? You'd lost all this extra weight of your youth and now you look as if you want to work as a hot-air balloon!”

“Very funny! Perhaps I wanted to prove all your weight jokes right…”

Sherlock gasped. This was because of _him_? Nah. Not in this way… But certainly in another one. “You've been feeling guilty. About Eurus.”

“Oh, what an awesome deduction, Doctor Holmes!” Mycroft burst out, his forelock bouncing on his forehead. “Of course I have! You nearly got killed there! What would you have done if Eurus had not kept you from pulling the trigger!?! What? And all those other people who died because I fucked up containing her…” He panted now, his hand was cramped around his empty glass so hard it was only a question of time before it would burst in his fingers.

The curse was the most alarming sign for Sherlock. His brother never used such words! Mycroft was composure, and calmness, and smugness, and superiority! He didn’t _swear_!

He bent forward and tried to take the glass from his hand. “Give it here before you hurt yourself!”

“What's it to you!” Mycroft snarled, but he let Sherlock take the glass. “Fill it!”

“No! You've had enough!”

Mycroft slumped on the couch. “Yes,” he mumbled. “I really have enough…”

Sherlock had never seen his brother so defeated. Something was tremendously wrong about this picture! His brother should be all composed, elegant smugness, ruling the world from behind this desk with nonchalance, not some overweight, totally messed up… mess! He needed help! He needed…

The lightbulb moment that followed then made him jump on his chair. _Yes!_

“We'll do it,” he said, agitated. “Together! You and me!

Mycroft looked at him with comical confusion. “Do what?”

“ _Sex_ , Mycroft, do keep up! Hell, the goldfish do it all the time, so they have to know it works! And if two different people tell us to do it to get better, they may have a point!” Not that he would have listened to either of them had they given any other kind of advice but they were the experts in sex, not him (and certainly also not Mycroft, who was not a virgin but probably hadn't lowered himself to any sexual activity with any pointless goldfish for ages!).

No matter how innocent she appeared to be, Molly must have made a lot more sexual experiences than him (which was rather easy because he had none at all); after all she had at least fooled around with Moriarty _[shudder]_ and this scrawny wannabe-copy of himself she had even been engaged to, whatever his name was! And Lady Smallwood had been married and if he remembered correctly, she and her husband even had two children, so she must have been shagged at least twice. They had to know what they were talking about!

Mycroft's eyes were huge all at once. “Sherlock, you can't be that drunk! You seriously suggest we should… have sex with each other, just because two silly women tried to exploit our state to get what they've wanted to have from us for ages? Are you out of your mind?!”

“Yes! That's the whole problem!” Sherlock yelled. “I can't sleep! Not even if I try to! I'm too nervous to even eat! I see ghosts, or evil sisters! I can't trust any client to just be a client!”

Mycroft was staring at him. “Yes, I see that it's a problem but…”

Sherlock didn’t even listen to him. “And you! Do you want to go on like this? Eating whatever you can get your hands on? You drink too much, you sit on your arse all day, and now you are even about to get fat, well, say 'hello' to the stroke!”

Mycroft huffed. “You're exaggerating, Sherlock. I'm fine! It's not as if I was drunk all the time. And I can stop eating too much anytime!”

“Yes? Then why don't you do it?” Sherlock gave him a friendly smile with all innocent eyes but Mycroft didn’t seem to buy it.

“That's none of your business!” he hissed. “I even retreated from you, didn’t bother you…”

“Yes! Exactly! You disappeared!” Sherlock was on his feet now, way too wired-up to stay seated. “Everything's become topsy-turvy!”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft was bent forward now, staring at him, worried and heavily confused.

“Everything, Mycroft! My memories of my childhood? All wrong! Missing a dog I never had! Having a sister I can even now hardly remember except for this annoying song, and we won't even mention the best friend I completely forgot! My parents, who were worried about me being a mess all my life, now call me the 'grownup' and treat _you_ like the black sheep of the family, and we both know how stupid and unfair that is! John kicked me into hospital, and yes, he apologised and I forgave him and I deserved it and so on but do you really think our friendship is what it was before? The lousy day in Sherrinford, complete with this horrible phone call to Molly, which will probably follow me to the grave! And then, above all, you left! You never called, never showed up, never told me to do better and be decent! I've been feeling completely shitty, Mycroft…” He fell into Mycroft's armchair, all energy leaving his body in a rush. He had not seen his situation that clearly before this unexpected rant. The fact was, he could really not go on like this.

Mycroft looked as if he had slapped him. “My God, Sherlock… I'm so sorry. I thought… you wouldn’t want to have me around; hell, you never did! You even sent Lestrade to check on me.”

“Because I was sure you weren't feeling very great after that disaster and the last person you wanted to see was me…” Was that really the reason? Or hadn't he rather chosen to not reach out to Mycroft because his brother had appeared so shocked and shaken and un-Mycroftian in Sherrinford and he hadn't wanted to deal with him in this state?

“I wish you had come…” the older man whispered.

They looked into each other's eyes now, all shields shattered, and Sherlock could finally, finally see how deeply Mycroft cared about him and it made his heart turn in unexpected guilt and shame.

“I need some chocolate,” Mycroft said then and got up.

Sherlock was standing again within an instant. “No! You won't do that! That's definitely no solution at all! You of all people should know that, having told me all my life that addictions are a very bad thing!” He had never even considered that his brother was the addictive type as well but then – he had been a rather overweight child, crazy for high-calorie food, and it had got him again now, turning him into a sugar junkie, and he really hoped Mycroft wasn't drinking so much all the time…

“Sherlock, do you seriously suggest we should just… screw our misery out of each other?”

“Yes! I think it'll help!”

“We are brothers! It's forbidden!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What else is new? I think I've broken every law under the sun already! Apart from raping anyone of course… But besides that? Breaking in, multiple times?  High treason? Murder? You name it, I did it, and all of it was much worse than some brotherly shagging. We're adults for God's sake, and if anyone of us can get the other one pregnant, we'll make history with it. And it's not as if we're going to tell anybody that we do that! Let's give it a try and see if it works for us. And if you want to get something between your teeth, well, I'm sure I can provide you with something…”

Mycroft blushed to the roots of his hair. “You can't want that! Look at me… I've never been pretty but now…”

“It's not that bad, Mycroft, forget what I said; old habits don’t die so soon… You aren't obese! And you're my brother, as you just stated, so you can't be ugly by definition.” In fact his brother was far from being ugly. Sherlock had never actually paid attention since looks weren´t his priority in people, but really – a very tall man with appealing blue eyes, an impressive nose and nice lips… He was handsome, and besides that, he was smarter than Sherlock himself. Not that he was behaving that smart right now…

“You could have just anybody!” he protested even though he should know it would be fruitless.

“Yeah, well, I don't _want_ just _anybody_ , Mycroft! If I did, I could have got it over with years ago. There is nobody else I know who's appealing to me in the least and I can't be bothered to touch a stranger!” The sheer thought made him shudder. Even if he found someone else who was handsome _and_ clever, which was improbable enough if not a lost cause – he would have to ask him never-ending questions about his past and still he wouldn’t trust him! There was no question that he could trust Mycroft though, all the lies about Redbeard and Eurus aside! With a stranger he would always just wonder if Eurus had sent him or if he was Moriarty's little brother or hell, even Moriarty himself!

Mycroft shook his head. “This is a really bad idea!”

“Maybe! But a bad idea with lots of potential!”

“Potential to turn into a truly _horrible_ idea?”

Sherlock surprised himself with chuckling. “That was good, brother! And by the way – I didn’t hear you say you don't want it because _you_ don't find _me_ attractive!”

“As if anyone _didn’t_ find you attractive!” Mycroft blushed even harder at this certainly unplanned statement.

So he had perhaps thought about him in a non-brotherly way before? Sherlock stored this information away for later. “So, we're clear then.”

“No! You go home now and…”

“…continue to piss off John? You remember what he did last time?” That had been a low-blow and Sherlock knew it.

Mycroft paled and his lips were pressed to a thin line for a moment. “I should have taken him out when I learned about that!”

“But I wouldn’t have let you.” He had no intention to discuss this matter now. Or ever. He knew Mycroft couldn’t stand John and had to admit he understood it to some extent as Mycroft might lament about sentiment and 'caring is not an advantage' and whatnot but he had always been rather protective of him. But John was a big part of his life and would always be. Still the doctor could not help him in any way here. But he was strangely sure that Mycroft, in fact, could. ”Come on now, brother. You need some… attention, and exercise, and I'm sexier than your treadmill.” He giggled about his own joke, and Mycroft looked at him as if he had suggested him doing a lap dance for the Prime Minister. Or Lady Smallwood… He giggled some more, and then he took Mycroft's hand and dragged him to the door. He had not been in Mycroft's bedroom when he and John had broken into the house - and yeah, perhaps he owed his brother an apology for that, and for a few other things as well – but he was rather sure he would find it somewhere upstairs, if Mycroft was willing to lead the way or not.

“Sherlock, please…” Mycroft stammered, and he sounded as if he didn’t really know what he was begging for.

“Shut up, Mycroft. Let's give me something to calm me down and make you burn some calories and cheer you up. Doesn’t seem to me as if it could really do any more damage to either of us." He didn’t even feel the urge to check if the security was really in place and search the house for intruders, and he thought that this was starting off rather well. And eventually Mycroft stopped struggling and walked next to him with slightly unsteady steps, having resigned himself to his fate of always indulging Sherlock's whims, and really, why had he even made such a fuss? This was all about some mutual brotherly assistance, and Sherlock was sure they would both benefit from it.


	3. Brotherly Assistance

Mycroft was feeling as if he'd been dragged into an alternative universe. Perhaps it was all true about the quantum theory. Because in his innocent, familiar little world, baby brothers, especially this particular baby brother, didn’t suggest having sex to solve each other's problems!

He had let himself drop onto his bed as soon as they had entered his large bedroom – after Sherlock had given him a questioning eyebrow to which room they had to go when they had reached the second floor, and Mycroft had pointed at the door in question, not able to bring out a word anymore.

This couldn’t be happening! His brother, who had mocked him with a non-existent weight problem all his adult life, couldn’t seriously want to give pleasure to his body, which now indeed did have a weight problem!

And still said brother was now quickly undressing next to the bed, revealing prominent hipbones, sculpted abdominal muscles, smooth skin with scars on back and front that strangely enough even added to his peculiar attractiveness (and Mycroft winced at each and every one of them, knowing all-too-well where they originated from), long, well-defined limbs and a thick package, so far hidden by his tight black briefs.

Sherlock gave him a challenging look. Mycroft shook his head.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, leaving his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his last remaining piece of clothing, looking like an exceptionally appealing albeit slightly petulant male stripper. “If you seriously don't want it, I'll leave.” He sounded as if it would not please him at all if Mycroft said he should indeed leave him alone, as unbelievable as it was.

Mycroft swallowed. He knew he should send him away. Nothing good could come out of such a weird arrangement. But he settled for honesty. Perhaps all the food and the booze had meddled with his brain but damn it… “Only a complete idiot wouldn’t want it…”

This brought him a smile. “And since you are not… So why don't you undress then?”

“Because I'll look like a fat toad next to a thin lizard!”

Sherlock snorted. “You make the nicest compliments, brother. Neither am I a lizard nor are you a toad. Last time I checked I wasn't green, and you don't appear to be too slimy to me even though I might have to touch to be sure.”

“You know what I mean…”

“And I've told you before I don't have a problem with your looks, Mycroft. At least give me access to your crotch or this will be rather strange sex, and yes, even _I_ know that!”

With fingers shivering so hard as if he'd kept them in the freezer, Mycroft fumbled with his trouser button and zipper. When he had finally managed to open them – Sherlock staring at him impatiently, his look suggesting that if it took him two seconds longer, he would take over – he fumbled for his cock, which was still soft out of sheer apprehension of things to happen. It hadn't been touched by anyone else than Mycroft's hands for years, and even Mycroft had basically only done it to pee and very rarely to give himself pleasure as he simply found it embarrassing to be reminded of his physical needs, let alone to be bothered to take care of them.

So when he had got his hands around his terrified prick, it just hung out of his flies like a dead snake.

Sherlock stared at it curiously while shoving down his own pants, revealing an already half-hard, impressive cock. It wasn’t as if Mycroft's was lacking in size in any way but in this condition, it was hardly an attractive sight.

So Mycroft pulled at it rather rudely, glancing at his brother's member, which seemed to grow under his look. And then his hand was pushed away.

“May I?” Sherlock asked and it sounded like a completely rhetorical question; still he had the decency of not touching him at once. Instead of filling out at the prospect and his own brief ministrations, the pale-pink penis seemed to shrink together even more. “Wow, you do find me very hot,” Sherlock mumbled, embarrassing Mycroft even more.

“No, it's not that!” It was simply so unexpected and terrifying that his brother, his beautiful, bratty brother, was so keen on having sex with him. Who could blame his poor, neglected member for being afraid as everything else of him was afraid as well? But then – for him it had been years since he'd engaged in any sexual activity that included more than himself but for Sherlock, it was the very first time! He had to pull himself together. He wanted to help Sherlock, and if his brother thought it would help him… He had always done everything for him. Everything Sherlock had allowed him to do. And it wasn't as if... he was exactly appalled by it... “I should get more comfortable,” he conceded, starting to take off the rest of his clothes, beginning with his waistcoat.

Sherlock nodded but still looked rather disappointed about Mycroft's lack of response. Mycroft didn’t like the sight of a disappointed Sherlock, especially not if he was the reason, so he hurried to undress, trying not to think about his spare tyres, the awful amount of hair on his torso (and even his shoulders!) and his general lack of attractiveness, especially compared with this perfect specimen in front of him. He lay down awkwardly stiffly (just not in the right place), bent his one leg a bit and anxiously waited for whatever was about to happen next.

And then Sherlock's long fingers closed around his flaccid cock and started to experimentally stroke it, and Mycroft slumped into the pillows as it just felt so damn great.

*****

Oh, that was interesting! Sherlock had to admit he had been a tad indignant that Mycroft hadn't grown hard watching him undress, and had not even reacted to the touch of his own hand, fearing for a moment this mission was doomed from the start as his brother was impotent. But Mycroft, the old control freak, had certainly not indulged a habit of self-pleasing, probably he had, whenever his cock had dared start to rise, looked down on it with his Iceman eyes and great disappointment at its nosiness and made it shrink within the blink of an eye so it didn’t dare get up anymore even if it was supposed to do so.

But now that Sherlock's fingers probingly stroked up and down on this silky skin, he could feel it getting plump against his hand; the head started to turn a darker shade of pink, and hey, there was a little droplet appearing in the slit (and Sherlock felt strangely giddy at the thought that this slit was the way out for Mycroft's urine), and yes, sir, Mycroft was breathing faster now, and his pupils were nicely dilated while he was staring at the movements of Sherlock's hand as if he was being hypnotised.

Still he could sense that his brother was feeling very self-conscious about his rounded belly and the double chin he had developed. “Just relax, brother,” he said soothingly.

“What? This is not really meant for getting relaxed!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not this part. Stop thinking about your gut. Or all the hair.” He did find that very interesting too, if he was honest. How could one brother be almost completely smooth, apart from the stray dark hairs in the middle of his chest, and the other one was so hirsute!

Mycroft looked rather appalled, and Sherlock sighed. “Get over it, brother. You look like a bear, and a bear that has started getting ready for its hibernation above all.” To his horror, Mycroft gaped at him with eyes like a wounded deer and the thing in his hand started losing its firmness again, and he pumped it roughly. “That was a _joke_ , Mycroft. You look fine, and once we've properly got into this arrangement, you'll lose these extra pounds in no time.”

Mycroft gaped a bit more but his cock was growing harder again. “You mean you really want to do this more than once?”

“Well, of course! Wasn't that clear?” In fact he had said they should find out of it worked for them, meaning being helpful, but frankly, this wouldn’t be happening at the first try! “We won't miraculously return to normal, Mycroft, whatever this actually is for us! We might be able to say if it's something we can both appreciate, but for being really helpful, it will require practice!”

“And… you want to practice… with me?”

“For God's sake, Mycroft, that's what I'm saying all the time! Do you ever listen?”

Mycroft nodded and unconsciously licked his lips.

“You've wanted this for quite some time, haven't you?” slipped out of Sherlock's mouth before he could think about that this was probably not the right strategy to deal with guilty-feeling, tense Mycroft. And of course the cock in his hand, which had reached a rather impressive state over the past few minutes, twitched as if it wanted to escape Sherlock's grip.

“No, I have never thought about this before!” Mycroft insisted, his cheeks getting as pink as his knob.

Of course Sherlock could tell he was lying, and lying badly. Probably Mycroft had lusted after him for bloody _decades_ , never saying anything, torturing himself for his misguided desires, and the whole 'caring is not an advantage' nonsense started to make a lot more sense all at once!

And Mycroft of course deduced his thoughts and blushed an even brighter shade of pink, but Sherlock didn’t comment on it and instead masturbated his brother to full hardness, making the older man's eyes roll in reluctant pleasure. “Well, we're here now so let's find out if it works for both of us. And if not, we don't have to repeat it.” He had every intention to repeat whatever would actually happen tonight plenty of times, even if it was just for the – overdue – sexual exploration and the fun of seeing Mr Control coming apart. It was time to get things heated up a bit!

So he bent forward and took Mycroft's now actually large cock halfway into his mouth and sucked probingly, knowing enough about giving head to be aware he had to watch his teeth, and Mycroft moaned so loudly that his ears were ringing, and he thought that he was obviously doing something right.

*****

He would go to hell for this! Even if there wasn't a hell, it would be invented especially for him!

Mycroft had thought so since that summer evening when Sherlock had been sixteen. Baby brother had come from the lake near their parents' house in nothing but swim shorts, wet and clinging to his glistening body, and he had looked like a wet, sullen angel, glaring daggers for being summoned to the dinner table. Even back then, Sherlock had thought eating was boring, and he had been so lean and perfect and breathtakingly beautiful.

He had been such a bright, happy child, always on Mycroft's heels, eager to learn and to grow, not only physically. And then Victor had appeared in his life, taking his attention away from Mycroft, and it had stupidly hurt him, and when the boy had disappeared, a tiny (and despicable) part of him had been glad about it. At least for a very short while. And then Musgrave had burnt and Eurus had been taken away, and Sherlock had stopped running around, searching for Victor, and had chosen to forget them both, and instead of turning to Mycroft again, he had withdrawn into himself more and more, getting more unapproachable with every passing year. Mycroft leaving their home to study had finally sealed their everlasting estrangement, and whenever they had met afterwards, Sherlock had been grumpier and nastier to everybody, and it had been clear he had forgotten their strong bond from his early childhood as thoroughly as he had erased Eurus and Victor. It had almost killed Mycroft, and even though he had matched Sherlock's icy tone, he had never given up on him, had never given up hope they could be close again one day, so he had kept watching his back, had been there when Sherlock had started falling for the drugs even though at this point his feelings for his brother had been disturbed not only by Sherlock's obvious condescension for him but also by his own unwelcome desires for the increasingly beautiful young man. He had hated himself for it and had suppressed these feelings with all he'd had.

The years had gone by and they had seen each other less and less, and one day Sherlock had found the Scotland Yard cases to distract himself, and Mycroft had been glad about Greg Lestrade's will to let Sherlock participate; it certainly was a win-win situation for them. Sherlock had calmed down a bit but it had not changed anything about their messed-up relationship. Mycroft was rather sure Sherlock thought he despised his occupation as a private or, like he wanted to put it, consulting detective when he in all his cleverness would have been able to be so much more. Mycroft had thought that everything that was able to distract Sherlock from drugs and even served some purpose for the community was a good thing but he had never told him as he knew Sherlock hated _his_ job for the government so he had childishly not said a good thing about Sherlock's new occupation.

And just when he had finally decided they couldn’t go on like this and was ready to make the first step, John Watson had appeared in his brother's life like a particularly annoying jack-in-the-box, claiming all of Sherlock's attention and becoming indispensable for him within the blink of an eye. It had probably be not his smartest move to kidnap the doctor and try to make him spy on Sherlock, which had been also a test for his loyalty and a message for Sherlock to let him know he had not given him up in any way. Of course John had been all snarky and petulant, which he should have expected as he was Sherlock's friend after all… In the years to come, the doctor had become more important for Sherlock in every minute or so it seemed, and Mycroft had continued to lurk in the shadows, just popping up if Sherlock's help for matters of national importance was required or if he had to save his brother's behind. The planning for his disappearance had brought them closer together for a short while, but then Sherlock had been gone for two years. Mycroft had of course observed his progress and they had been in contact via texting from time to time, but when Sherlock had returned, everything had gone down the hill again. Sherlock had accused him of enjoying his torture in Serbia! In fact it had almost killed Mycroft to be forced to watch this and have to wait for the right moment to intervene so they would both get out of their alive, but Sherlock had not understood.

He had never understood how deeply Mycroft cared for him, his sick desires aside. And the coldness that dominated their relationship had even helped Mycroft to suppress these emotions. But he had never forgotten them and when Sherlock had made this insane suggestion to have sex with each other, they had naturally returned with full force. He should have thrown him out at once and never let him anywhere near his wrecked body, but he just couldn’t resist him. Not only because he had indeed longed for him for more than two decades but because this day in Sherrinford that had almost cost their lives had hit him so hard that he had just collapsed under the weight of guilt and shame and desperation. He knew he couldn’t go on like this, he knew Sherlock had a point about him risking a stroke with his unhealthy life style, and he had realised that he had even welcomed that. He had been so depressed that he had given up.

And now his body was at the heights of pleasure and his conscience was telling him he would go to hell for breaking the incest taboo and using Sherlock.

But he didn’t actually, did he? Use him? Sherlock was the one who had suggested it. Sherlock did not just do it for him but certainly mainly for himself, as he too suffered after this horrible day so denying him this would have made him feel even guiltier for what had happened in Sherrinford, as Sherlock's condition was his fault, too! His brother had had premonitions before Mary Watson's violent death, and now he seemed to have even developed delusions.

Bottom line was, no matter what he did, he would be feeling guilty, and if he was very honest, he would rather go to hell for giving them both physical pleasure and maybe even help Sherlock getting rid of his problems than remain steadfast and keep his last bit of integrity by not committing incest and make them both feel even more miserable in the go.

All these thoughts had been whirling through his confused and shaken mind while Sherlock's tongue had been whirling around the engorged head of his cock, and he was torn and disturbed and more aroused than ever before in his life.

And then Sherlock took him in much deeper than before and he exploded into his brother's mouth without warning, making Sherlock splutter and cough, and with cheeks burning from embarrassment, Mycroft, almost torn in two by his hefty orgasm, mumbled his apologies, but Sherlock waved them away.

“No worries. I just didn’t expect you to come so fast.” Sherlock wiped over his soiled chin and mouth.

“Neither did I. Next time I'll give you a warning.” _Next time?_ Was he mad? Sherlock would never want to do this again and he shouldn’t want that either!

But to his surprise, Sherlock nodded. “That would be convenient, yes. I'll experiment a bit so I can take it better next time.”

“Experiment…?” A myriad of pictures was flooding his mind, and none of them was pleasant.

Sherlock sighed. “Not with another man, brother. I thought I made very clear that I can't even stand the thought of doing this with someone else. But there are other ways to simulate a come shot.”

Mycroft didn’t even want to know any details but he nodded weakly, stupidly relieved that whatever Sherlock had in mind, it wouldn’t include sex with someone else. “So you… want to do it… again?”

“How many times more do you want to ask that, Mycroft?!”

“But… I thought… It can't have been very pleasant.”

“The ending was a bit surprising, that's all. It was actually pretty… interesting…”

Mycroft gaped like a fish. Sherlock had enjoyed sucking him off? 'Interesting' was probably the highest compliment _'Everything-Bores-Me'_ -Sherlock was capable of paying anybody!

“So,” Sherlock said, pointing at his own erection, which had surprisingly not wilted during his ministrations and the messy ending; in fact it seemed to have become even stronger, “what are you going to do about _this_ then?”

Mycroft was silent for a moment, trying to get his brain to function again. “Um. Return the favour?”

Sherlock nodded vehemently. “Well, what are you waiting for? You must be hungry after getting off so strongly!” He grinned and threw himself onto his back next to Mycroft with his arms above his head, looking up to him expectantly and a tad impatiently, and Mycroft, who was feeling so spent he would have loved to nap now, brought himself into a sitting position.

He would now give his little brother a blowjob – something he had not allowed himself to even dream about for all those years! And even if the devil was rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation now – he just couldn’t wait to do this and when he bent down to brush a probing kiss on Sherlock's flat stomach, he felt indeed a strong hunger, and it had nothing to do with chocolate.

*****

Now this was nice... Sherlock had expected Mycroft to go straight to work and suck him off, but instead he watched him pressing tiny kisses onto his stomach and thighs, sending sparks of excitement through his entire body. His cock was rock hard and he craved relief, but he had to admit that the anticipation increased his arousal. As long as Mycroft didn't change his mind and start lecturing about stupid laws again or run from the room, screaming and heading straight to the kitchen to stuff his mouth with food instead of Sherlock's cock, he could enjoy this interlude.

Mycroft was feeling heavily guilty, so much was sure. Sherlock had no idea why. He didn't care for how long Mycroft had wanted them to do this; his brother had never touched him in any inappropriate way (or almost at all) when Sherlock had been underage and now he had the explicit permission to do so, so why did he bother? He clearly longed for it, and Sherlock enjoyed it. He had enjoyed giving head to his brother, and he was, despite his embarrassing reaction to Mycroft's strong eruption, rather proud of himself to have performed this act so well on his first try. He had liked the taste... He had liked Mycroft's reactions... He had liked having a large cock in his mouth, bottom line... There was no need for feeling guilty. Sherlock had made some experiences with feeling guilty lately, and he had been redeemed by taking a royal hiding from John. But of course he was still blaming himself for Mary's death, knowing it was a waste of time. He couldn't turn back the clock and give Rosie her mother back. He was feeling guilty of indirectly causing her loss, and that was enough guilty feelings for him. He didn't see why he or Mycroft should bother with it for giving each other some non-brotherly attention. It was nobody's business, and Mycroft could be assured he wouldn't accuse him for taking advantage of him; the sheer thought was ridiculous. If it all, it was the other way around, but he knew Mycroft wanted it too, feeling bad about it or not, and so it was fine. They were used to doing things differently to anybody else, none of them was attached to anyone else, they were free and single and frankly unsociable, no matter how often his brother played nice with stupid royals and politicians and how much Sherlock was forced to deal with annoying people, and therefore they had any right to get tactile with anybody they wanted to, and he wouldn't waste his time with worrying about pointless laws that had been meant to protect minors and dependant people from being abused and for preventing the birth of sick children. Nobody was abusing anyone here and neither of them would get pregnant anytime soon so the law could go fuck itself as far as he was concerned.

Speaking of fucking… He doubted that Mycroft would get his cock up again so soon and even if he did, he would just lament about it being too soon. Well, fine with him. Because now Mycroft's soft mouth had found his cock and he had started to suck him with more skill than Sherlock had expected, and he wondered briefly about the other men who had been provided with this royal treatment before his groin was being set on fire and he couldn’t think at all anymore. He tried, just as he had been doing when it had been his turn, to memorise all the feelings and sensations, but he didn’t get very far as he simply exploded down his brother's throat within not even two minutes, also without warning as he had not had a chance to do so.

Mycroft swallowed his load with a lot more dignity, and Sherlock immediately swore to himself that he would be able to perform this flawlessly the next time, and there would definitely be a next time! For now he slumped into the pillows, feeling boneless and spent.

And then he heard a strange, quiet noise from pretty far away but certainly from within the house, and his head snapped up. “What was that?!”

Mycroft gave him a confused look and then he raised his eyebrows. “The fridge, Sherlock. Nobody's in the house.”

Sherlock nodded, not entirely convinced. They had been rather careless!

Mycroft watched him with a hint of sympathy that he didn’t like at all. He wasn’t crazy! Just a bit… scarred maybe…

And then the unmistakable sound of a growling stomach filled the room, and it wasn't Sherlock's.

Mycroft gave him a sheepish smile and Sherlock surprised himself with giggling. “Well, brother, this was very nice but I guess we need lots more practice before it pays out in the way we want to.”

After a long look Mycroft nodded. “It seems so. Would you like to eat something?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Why not. Can't let you eat all alone.”

That brought him an astonished look. “Well, brother mine. Our sex might not have cured you, but it certainly improved your manners!”

“Don't get used to it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And the Brothers Holmes shared a smile that felt strangely comforting and surprisingly nice, and Sherlock thought that no matter if it would help either of them with their problems - if it really was a problem in his case and not entirely justified (!) - it had already helped to lighten up their relationship, and besides that, it had felt bloody great.


	4. Bumpy Roads

It was ten-thirty when Sherlock entered Baker Street. After eating some sandwiches together, he and Mycroft had talked for a while, Sherlock casually throwing in some obviously overdue apologies that Mycroft had waved away but Sherlock knew his brother had appreciated them. It had been a rather long and depressingly nasty list of failures that had come to his mind when he had finally bothered thinking about them. It must feel a bit like this when someone visited a confessional, even though Sherlock guessed that priests were usually not as sexy as his brother was. And that he found Mycroft (!) sexy (!) was something he'd never expected to discover.

Mycroft had been surprisingly pleasant to be around, in and outside of the bed. When they had finished eating, he had shown Sherlock the live video feed from Sherrinford, explaining all he had done to ensure Eurus' complete confinement for the rest of her life, and he hadn't sounded condescending at all about Sherlock's fears.

And still… Sherlock had poked his head out of the front door before leaving Mycroft's house, seeing nobody, and he had looked over his shoulder all the way to the next street where he would get a cab. Now that he had left Mycroft again, he was feeling wired and suspicious once more despite the physical relief and the cautious joy about possibly having found back the brother he had more or less lost long ago. This was definitely something they should be continuing – not just the physical pleasantries he suddenly longed to discover but also the conversations – and he knew Mycroft felt the same.

They would meet again the next evening, and Mycroft had promised to at least try to confine himself and not stuff his face with too many unhealthy calorie bombs, just as Sherlock had promised to not pull at people's hair and subject old ladies to a body search if he could avoid it. He thought this was rather nice for a start! And it wasn't that irrational to make sure nobody saw him coming out of Mycroft's house, was it? Nobody except for, obviously, John and Lestrade, should know they were getting along better now. It would mean a stronger pressure point should somebody want to harm either of them! So it was justified to be suspicious!

And then his heart jumped in his chest when Mrs Hudson's door opened up and a broom fell out of her hand, clattering on the floor.

“Oh, sorry, love! I'm so clumsy!”

“It's okay,” he mumbled, a little proud that he had at least not shrieked again.

“So you visited your brother?” she asked after picking up the broom and leaning it against the wall.

As usual, she was well informed. “I did, yes. He's not feeling that well at the moment.” There was no point in lying to her since John had certainly told her why Mycroft had asked him to come over. And this was Mrs Hudson – she was, wasn't she?! – and he could trust her.

“Yes, John said. It's nice of you to go to him and offer some support!”

He had offered Mycroft a little more than that, and it was actually a miracle that Mycroft had accepted it… Well, if 'acceptance' was the right word for it. He had indulged Sherlock but he had definitely enjoyed himself, too, and he had agreed to do more of it even though of course he still struggled with those pointless guilty feelings. An image of him shagging sweat-covered Mycroft on his bed, exercising the additional flesh plus those stupid doubts out of him in the most interesting way, hit him suddenly, and his cock swelled in his pants, which was not a good idea right now… Would Mr Control-Freak even let him top him? Or would he prefer just hammering his large dick into Sherlock's arse?

Damn! He couldn’t think of that right now!

“What are you doing with a broom so late at all?” he asked his landlady, unobtrusively closing his coat a little more. “Going to fly away for the Witch's Sabbath?”

“Oi!” she playfully scolded him and hit his arm and he giggled, realising how much lighter he was feeling.

He bent forward to kiss her cheek, something he hadn't done in years. “Good night, Mrs Hudson. And thank you for keeping up with me.”

“Oh, my dear Sherlock. Always!”

They shared a smile and then he walked upstairs where John was certainly waiting for him…

*****

“Sherlock!” John closed his laptop. “Never thought you'd stay with your brother for so long! No black eye? Mycroft still has all his teeth?”

He indeed had, Sherlock thought. When he had left, his brother had even smiled, baring said teeth! “I think so,” he said, slipping out of his coat - his erection had thankfully started to wilt; John had this impact on him. “I didn’t count them.”

John chuckled but then he scrutinised Sherlock. “You look a lot better!”

 _Damn…_ “He bored the worries out of me,” he mumbled.

“Well, whatever he did, it worked!” John smiled smugly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let himself drop into his armchair. Then he shot up again. “I didn’t lock the door!”

John sighed. “It's okay, Sherlock. Nobody will come and steal you, and if they do, they'll bring you back first thing tomorrow morning!”

 _Smartarse…_ Sherlock nodded darkly, pretending to be more worried than he was. He would still lock the door! But he was able to concede the possibility that they were safe for tonight.

He recalled the video feed of Eurus, sitting in her cell, looking as if she had said goodbye to the world. He had almost felt sorry for her… And then he had recalled Little Victor, dying alone in a cold well, and the governor and his wife and the three brothers, one guilty, two not. And if he hadn't finally deciphered this silly song, perhaps John would have drowned in this well too… No. No matter the moment of closeness when it had been over, no matter that she was his baby sister - she was evil and she didn't deserve his sympathy.

“If they murder us in our sleep, you'll see,” he mumbled now.

John shook his head. “I guess your new unofficial therapist will have some more work to do before you really return to what passes as normal for you.”

Sherlock pouted. “He said I had to come back tomorrow! Well, perhaps my company will keep him from eating until he explodes…”

“Who would have known,” John said thoughtfully. “Both of you, so cool, if not cold, dealing with all kinds of problems and threats, and then your little sister comes along and turns you both into a mess…”

He had a point. “Makes sense though,” Sherlock said in the same tone. “Only a Holmes can do enough damage to push Planet Iceman out of his orbit…”

“… and make the Consulting Detective see ghosts…” John finished his sentence.

Sherlock glowered at him. “I do not see ghosts! I see very valid threats!”

“Yeah, in old ladies with purple hair. Nastiest fiends on earth!”

“Shut up, John!”

John grinned and shrugged. “Sorry, Sherlock. I know it's not actually funny. But somehow it is…”

“Bah! I'm going to bed now!”

“Oh wow, you actually want to _sleep_? Mycroft can really do wonders!”

 _Yes, especially with his mouth…_ For a horrible moment Sherlock feared he had said it out loud, but since John wasn't screaming and pulling his hair out, he obviously hadn't.

He got up. “Good night then.”

“Good night. Sweet dreams!”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow at him but he thought that he could think of a thing or two he would like to dream about.

And then he went and locked the door.

*****

Mycroft slipped out of his robe, which he had put on after the second shower of this evening, and dressed in his light-blue pyjamas before slipping under the blanket. He had changed the sheets, which his housekeeper usually did every two weeks, but it had been necessary after the messy outcome of the blowjob Sherlock had given him, and he wondered what Mrs Brown would think about his sudden need for fresh linen as Sherlock would return the next day, and he immediately decided to cover the duvet with some blankets for whatever activity would be happening next on his so far so innocently used bed.

Now that he was lying on his back in his again-lonely bed, he pondered about the unexpected developments of this evening. Why the hell had Sherlock suggested doing this? Had even sucked him off right away? And was so eager to do more? Wasn't appalled by Mycroft longing for him for ages as it had taken him no time to deduce that?

He knew he should not question anything of it. He had already come to terms with feeling guilty either way – denying Sherlock's advances or giving in to them. In fact the sex had been very enjoyable for both of them – when he had finally managed to function. It would do no good to read more into this than the mutual efforts of two brothers to ease the other one's problems. Sherlock wasn't in love with him… He was searching for help from Mycroft, and Mycroft had never denied him his support. That Sherlock cared enough for him to do something like this with and for him was miraculous in itself. Even though Mycroft knew very well that the possibility that Sherlock would drop this as soon as he had got rid of his anxiety regarding Eurus and what might follow up on the day in Sherrinford and made some experiences or even experiments with him was very high. He should enjoy it as long as it lasted and let Sherlock go with dignity afterwards. He just hoped they would never return to being 'archenemies' again as he would probably not endure that anymore.

He closed his eyes, ready to fall asleep. And then he could feel a familiar stirring in his stomach – it was craving something fat and unhealthy. He had suppressed this hunger for a surprisingly long time tonight but now it was back with full force. He sighed and put his hand on his hairy, rounded stomach.

Sherlock hadn't been too appalled by it. And damn, he wouldn’t be able to sleep with this need. Just once more… A nasty little voice in his head told him he was weak and there would always be 'just once more' and Sherlock would mock him for having no control over his body and he knew it was true and that he should just stay in bed and sleep.

It didn’t help. He got up and hurried downstairs to get his hands on something full of calories, taste and comfort.

*****

“Hello, come in! Sit down!” John gestured at the visitor's chair, and the elderly man sat down with an awe-struck look at Sherlock.

The detective was sitting in his armchair, watching the client, feeling a tad tense. They'd just had breakfast, John, Rosie and him. He had slept rather well. He was freshly showered and shaven and the day had just started, and he was feeling wired up once more.

Since he didn’t say anything, John gave him an admonishing glance and started the conversation. “So, how can we help you, Mr...?”

“Oh, Garrison.”

Sherlock winced and then shrugged when John cleared his throat and rolled his eyes.

“He didn’t say 'Garrideb', Sherlock!”

“I know! I'm not deaf!”

The white-haired man was looking from one Baker Street Boy to the other. “Sorry?”

“Oh, apologies, Mr Garrideb, uh, Garrison,” John hurried to correct himself, giving Sherlock an apologetic look.

Sherlock sighed. He wasn’t feeling like listening to another boring story. A part of him would have even embraced it if the man had really introduced himself as 'Garrideb'. Another part of him knew he would have run out of the flat or shaken the old guy if he'd had… A third part was pondering about his due meeting with Mycroft later that day and it was getting a tad excited already even though it was only morning.

And then the old man spoke again. “It's, um, my son, Alec…”

Sherlock sat up straight.

Now John sighed. “He said 'Alec', not 'Alex', Sherlock.”

“It sounds almost the same! Who are you?! Really their father?!” Sherlock glowered at the man in the beige clothes, who was about a head shorter than him. Wasn’t there a resemblance with the deceased brothers? Why had he not searched the man for a hidden weapon!

“I don't understand! Can you help me or not? My son has disappeared! Once he said he would go to sea and…”

“Argh!” Sherlock got up, hurried to the client's chair and pulled the man up by his old-fashioned jacket.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, pulling him back with strong arms. “Let him be! It's all just a coincidence!”

“The universe is rarely so lazy!” Sherlock thundered and shook him off to once again grab the man, who burst into tears.

“Oh, what is going on here?!” cried Mrs Hudson, entering with a tray.

*****

_Hello, brother. How is your day? SH_

_Good morning, Sherlock. Just coming out of my first meeting. Busy as always. How are you? MH_

_Guess I will be sued… Don't ask… How's the diet? SH_

_Sued?! Oh, Sherlock… And well… It's not easy. MH_

_Ah, I think John just talked him out of it. And he's close to give me another thrashing. And I guess it is indeed a struggle, otherwise everybody would look like a model. SH_

_I am not going to let him hurt you again. MH_

_Have you never been tempted to do the same? SH_

_No. Never. MH_

_You're a saint. SH_

_I think nobody ever called me that. MH_

_Sorry, Iceman. SH_

_Better. So things have not improved a lot? MH_

_Doesn't look like, no. But I'm not giving up so easily! SH_

_Neither do I. And I ate tons of food when you were gone. MH_

_Sinner. SH_

_I do think so. MH_

_Damn, the next client is coming in. See you later. SH_

_The PM is waiting for me… Yes. Stay strong. MH_

_You too. Avoid bursting; you're needed. SH_

_I shall do my best. MH_

*****

“Hi Mycroft. Have you already started without me?” Sherlock looked up and down and him and his gaze was even appreciative.

Mycroft blushed, if that was even possible with his already flushed face. “I was on my treadmill and forgot the time,” he said sheepishly, smoothing down his tousled hair. When the doorbell had rung, he had tumbled from his training tool and towards the door, in his workout outfit.

Sherlock smirked and it made Mycroft's heart do funny things. “There was no need for extending yourself tonight, brother, you know we're going to have some exercise together. Oh, brought you a snack on my way here…”

Mycroft stared at the bag Sherlock had handed him. “Fruits?”

“Yep. It's supposed to be healthy. Not that _I_ eat them…” The detective hung up his coat.

“Do you ever eat at all?” Mycroft couldn’t help but sounding a little bitter.

“Not too often,” Sherlock said calmly. “Well then, bedroom?”

Mycroft stared at him in awe. His beautiful brother obviously couldn’t wait to get tactile with him again! Not that it was any different for him… “I need another quick shower first,” he said apologetically. He had really lost himself running on his treadmill, his pulse only slowly decreasing.

“No problem.” Sherlock smiled, and Mycroft thought that he had never looked better. He had had a haircut today; his black curls were rather short now, which made him look older but in a good way. His eyes were their usual bright beauty of blue and green, his cheekbones were sticking out, his cheeks were clean shaven. The slim fit black suit was stressing his nowadays very muscular frame and of course there wasn't an ounce of fat to be found on his gorgeous body. Sherlock was sheer perfection from thick-haired head to pretty toe, and Mycroft would have probably fumed from envy if he wasn't miraculously allowed to get very close to this stunning man.

Sherlock tilted his head. “We can go on standing in your hallway with you admiring me for the rest of the day, or we can go upstairs so you can get ready for burning some calories with me. What do you think?”

“The latter,” Mycroft mumbled, and Sherlock grinned.

But then he frowned. “Oh! You haven't locked the door again!”

Mycroft nodded. “Just a second. Care to tell me about your little mishap today? Getting sued, this sort of thing?” He made sure all locks were closed again.

Sherlock groaned. “No. I really do not…”

But still he had texted Mycroft about it.

And Mycroft had told him he had eaten a lot after Sherlock had left him the evening before.

And even more than the thought about the sex they were about to have this showed that things between them had been changing. And definitely changing for the better. The Holmes brothers confessing weaknesses and reaching out to each other. It was unheard of. And very nice.

*****

“So… Have you practiced already?” Mycroft asked while slipping out of the robe he had put on after his shower.

“Yeah,” Sherlock mumbled. “John caught me splashing mayonnaise into my mouth with a syringe.” It had been a rather messy matter, and John had looked at him with a disapproving grimace while getting a cloth.

Mycroft gave him a disbelieving look. “Mayonnaise?! And what did you tell him?”

“Ah, don't worry about that. He didn’t even ask…” John was used to him doing literally all kinds of experiments. Well, almost all kinds. He never brought animals home to do something nasty with them. But with himself or rotten body parts he had done almost anything, and more than once, John had been an involuntary participant in his experiments, and when John had found out, he had not been exactly pleased. He had just lately warned Sherlock from doing anything like this with Rosie, which had made Sherlock make a rude gesture with his hand. He did have limits!

“So, was it better or worse?” Mycroft asked curiously.

“It tasted a lot worse but the texture came close enough to semen. But it did trigger my gag reflex quite nastily, too…” Somehow Sherlock didn’t see himself swallowing his brother's release anytime soon. Probably he shared this incapability with other people but damn, Mycroft had done it for him so he wanted to be able to do it for him as well! He was Sherlock Holmes for God's sake! He couldn't get sick from a come shot!

“Sherlock, it's really nothing to worry about. I'll make sure to retreat in time so you don't have your mouth filled with my… sperm… It's no big deal at all. I don't expect you to do it, or to do anything you're not comfortable with.”

“I am well aware, brother. Except for being polite and staying sober, you've never expected anything from me I didn’t want.” And Sherlock had always been fuming and complaining even about that…

Mycroft grinned and finally threw the robe he had been holding onto a chair. “Well, it's the same category, isn’t it? 'Be polite, don't take drugs and swallow my semen'.”

Somehow this sentence did something to Sherlock's groin. He was sitting on Mycroft's large bed, his back resting against the wood, naked already, and he could watch his cock filling out at his brother's words. “I like hear you saying such things…”

Mycroft blushed once more. “I was merely making a joke…”

Which was as uncommon for the politician/grey eminence as was dirty talking, Sherlock thought. He gave Mycroft's long-limbed body an appreciative look. Rounded belly or not, his brother was a sight. Sherlock even liked the generous fur on his body, looking so different from his own almost smooth skin. And his nipples… Sherlock's were rather small and dark, but Mycroft's were pink and big, poking out of his chest hair. Sherlock wondered how they would taste.

“Come on now, Mycroft,” he said, and his voice sounded hoarse. “We have things to do and goals to achieve.” Deep inside he was sure that no matter how much sex they had, he would never stop being suspicious towards any stranger anymore. The whole Eurus affair had shown him thoroughly that nobody could be trusted, apart from his inner circle. Anybody could be someone else than they pretended to be, could be a danger, willing to tear his life apart for whatever reason. The best he could hope for by reaching post-coital calmness was that he didn’t start mistrusting even his nearest and dearest, which had already started lately when he had thought he had come to a staged crime scene, and he wanted to facepalm at this thought. And that he felt like this showed that this unusual arrangement already served the purpose. And that Mycroft had worked out again, certainly to look better for him as being naked made it impossible to hide anything, made clear that it also worked for his brother, even though his preference for good food and too much sugar would stay. But if he was able to keep it in check most of the time, it would be worth it already.

And when Mycroft sat down next to him on the bed and, after a deep look into Sherlock's eyes, proceeded to actually kiss him for the first time, making Sherlock's pulse speed up, he wondered if they even needed these reasons for being together like this.

*****

All day, since their pleasant texting in the morning, through all his meetings and working on reports and even on the treadmill, Mycroft had fantasised about this: kissing Sherlock's mouth. They had not done it the evening before and he had feared that Sherlock wouldn’t want that. Having sex was one thing – intimate enough for sure. But kissing… It was an even deeper intimacy and he would have understood if Sherlock hadn't refused it. They were not lovers after all. They were brothers who were helping each other out in the most unusual way.

Knowing this, it didn’t change a thing about his exploding heart rate when their lips met for the first time. Sherlock's beautifully shaped mouth felt and tasted exactly as wonderful as Mycroft had expected, if not more. His lips were plush and soft and sweet, and Mycroft thought if he was just allowed to kiss Sherlock 24/7, he would never even think of eating chocolate again. Well, of course that couldn’t happen so he was probably doomed to stay chubby and get even chubbier… But right now he couldn’t have cared less about sweets as kissing his gorgeous brother was sweeter than any sugary sin. And of course it was a much greater sin to do this but somehow he couldn’t have cared any less about that either…

It had taken him a lot of courage to initiate the kiss at all, but there had been something in his brother's eyes, something inviting and soft, that had made him gather the courage and he was very happy he had made this first step.

Sherlock eventually made space for him so he could lie down next to his brother, their lips locking instantly again as soon as he had stretched out. Sherlock's long arm curled around his fleshy waist, and their groins grinded against each other, making Mycroft's already slightly plump cock fill out rapidly. He was very glad he was reacting so strongly to his brother's touch today; it had not been nice at all to experience erectile problems in the beginning of their previous encounter.

He could feel Sherlock get boneless in his arms (while a certain part of him was quite the opposite of it). It was very nice to witness his wired little brother relax like this – and this was what this was about after all. Perhaps they could have left it at cuddling but he assumed that Sherlock wouldn’t really like this idea. And hell, he didn’t like it either. As much as he enjoyed their foreplay right now, he was craving for more, and so was his brother. They had not spoken about where they were heading tonight, but when Mycroft's fingertips started exploring Sherlock's warm crack, his brother's moans told him the younger man would be – literally – open to some even less brotherly action. He knew it should fill him with shame that he wanted it as well but he guessed Sherlock would have just said that shaming was a waste of time if he mentioned this, and he would have been right.

So when he started to finger Sherlock open, his cock now rock hard and Sherlock's pupils blown so wide that the beautiful blue and green of his irises was hardly visible anymore, he assumed they would go all the way today.

“Fuck me, brother,” Sherlock breathed, and Mycroft almost came right away, which he would have really not needed – a combination of erectile dysfunction one day and premature ejaculation the next one would have been horribly embarrassing…

He pulled back a little and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft shook his head. “Just getting some lubrication, Sherlock, no need to screech.”

“I never screech!”

“Yes, you do.”

Sherlock snorted but there was a sparkle in his eyes that had never been there before when they had been bickering, and Mycroft thought that even this had become really nice.

*****

Sherlock caught himself mumbling incoherent nonsense; his brain had stopped functioning properly and he didn’t even miss it.

At first it had felt as if Mycroft was poking around in him with a broom; even his fore- and then middle finger had felt rather uncomfortable in his anal canal, but his large cock with the mushroom head was a million times worse. At least at first.

Mycroft had of course started with tiny movements, moving into him very slowly, continuously asking him if it was all right for him.

At first it really hadn't been, and Sherlock knew Mycroft had been very close to retreating and never making an attempt again, but then he had managed to relax a bit and had become adjusted to the intrusion, and now, a few minutes of slow, shallow thrusting later, it was feeling heavenly, no matter that his cock and balls were trapped between their bodies, that his legs were trembling and would probably start cramping soon, that Mycroft's sweat was dribbling onto his face and upper body and that his brain had turned into jelly – Sherlock loved it.

His fantasies had been about topping Mycroft, but their extended kissing had somehow changed his focus. He still wanted them to switch places, especially as he was rather sure Mycroft had never been on the receiving end before, either, but for now he was happy with the submissive part, and with Mycroft being the older one, the more powerful one plus the taller and more hung one, it was probably a natural choice for Sherlock to be on bottom. But Sherlock was aware that sex between two men didn’t actually follow such rules; in a good relationship, both participants should take as well as they were giving, and this was some sort of relationship, wasn’t it, at least Sherlock wanted it to be like this, and he didn’t have much doubt that Mycroft was agreeing with it. There was certainly so much to discover and try out, so many possibilities for distracting Mycroft from his craving for food and Sherlock from worrying about threats that would probably never come true.

Clinging to Mycroft's neck, he realised that his ability to think had obviously returned; probably he had not been thinking so clearly for weeks now. But deep inside there was this little nagging voice that kept telling him that he wasn't making these threats up, that something, that someone was coming, and he should better keep on watching out because someone was lurking in the shadows, willing to tear his world to shreds, and it was weird that this high pleasure he was feeling had made this thought vocalise in his head clearer than before.

And then Mycroft shifted his body on him, his thrusts started coming from a different angle, and Sherlock could just so refrain from biting down his brother's neck as his groin felt as if it was being torn apart from pleasure, and after just a few more strokes, Sherlock came, howling against Mycroft's ear, and it took his brother no more than five further strokes to reach his climax as well, spending deep inside Sherlock's body, and Sherlock was definitely fine with this kind of come shot.

When Mycroft collapsed on him, he immediately apologised. “Sorry, little brother. Let me go!”

But Sherlock was holding on to him, enjoying the weight on his body. “No. We'll stay like this until we're glued together.”

“That won't take us very long,” Mycroft remarked dryly, and Sherlock grinned.

Right now, in the rainbow-coloured aftermaths of his strong climax, holding his brother close, feeling his heartbeat against his own, every kind of threat was far, far away, and he knew if he could just stay like this with his brother forever, he would never have such a nasty premonition again, and he wouldn’t meet any people he had to mistrust. But unfortunately, it couldn’t be.

“Thank you,” he mumbled now, stroking the back of his brother's head. “That was awesome.”

Mycroft smiled and brushed a kiss on his forehead. “Yes, little brother, it really was.”

And for the next half an hour, they just enjoyed each other's closeness, and Mycroft wasn’t feeling hungry, and Sherlock was simply relaxed. He only left the comfortable embrace to close his lips around Mycroft's right nipple, making his brother gasp, and it tasted every bit as infatuating as he had expected.

Mycroft stroked over his back. “That feels nice, little brother. But I'm not sure I'll be able to pull off another round tonight,” he said in an apologetic tone.

Sherlock rubbed his face against the slightly damp chest hair. “No worries, brother mine. If I can come back tomorrow…?”

“I'd really appreciate that.”

“Good.” And then Sherlock laid his head on Mycroft's soft belly. “Mmm. Nice pillow.”

Mycroft chuckled and his fingers were playing with Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock thought he had never felt that comfortable in all his life.


	5. Love Is A (Dangerous Dis-) Advantage

“I'm really proud of you, Sherlock. You didn’t even rip the silly sunglasses from the client's eyes!”

“Mycroft is a great therapist, John.”

“Yes, he really seems to be. And he's lost quite some weight over the past weeks, hasn't he?”

“Yes. Oh my God, look!” Sherlock pointed out of the cab window, his voice trembling with fear.

“What?”

“Over there! That's Eurus! I swear!”

John sighed. “When will you see your brother again?” he asked in a slightly exasperated voice, and Sherlock hid his smile behind his hand.

*****

“You look good.” Elizabeth Smallwood didn’t sound as if she was exactly happy about it.

Mycroft patted his belly. It wasn't flat; it would never really be, but he had lost about twelve pounds since his relationship with Sherlock had started, the result of plenty of – and almost daily – sex and the will to look as good as possible for his brother. “Thank you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you not going to return the favour?” she asked in a sour tone.

“Oh, you know you always look good,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Well, shall we go to the meeting room?” And he smiled when Anthea handed him a folder while casually stepping between them, and he winked at her, and his lovely PA winked back.

*****

“You look fine, Sherlock.”

“Thanks, Gavin.”

“Greg.”

“Whatever. So… He hadn't been seen two weeks before his body was found? It really shows…” Sherlock walked around the corpse that was lying on an unmade bed, the floor around was covered in rubbish, so he had to watch every step he was making in addition to examining the dead body.

“Yeah, the poor guy. Had nobody in the world.”

Sherlock nodded, fleetingly thinking that under other circumstances, he could have ended like this old man as well very easily. John would eventually have a serious relationship again and move out with Rosie. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t live forever. Molly would get over him one day and maybe even leave London. And Lestrade was a pretty old man and soon enough he would retire from his stressful job and move to Cornwall or another boring place to never hear anything about police work anymore.

And Sherlock would have been left alone as he couldn’t really imagine making any new friends. But now he had Mycroft. Well, he had of course always had him but he had never cherished this fact, his brother's concern or his constant efforts to make a connection with him.

Now they were connected very closely; in fact they very literally connected with each other almost every day, in all possible ways. Sherlock would never forget the first time he had been sinking into his brother's very tight hotness; it had blown him away. They had done so much together, Sherlock's favourite position so far had been sitting on Mycroft's lap while Mycroft had been sitting up, too, buried in Sherlock to the hilt, his arms around Sherlock's waist, Sherlock's around his brother's neck, and they had been kissing almost constantly while Sherlock had ridden him. Oh, such fond memories!

“So you're still seeing your brother regularly?”

Sherlock tensed. Hadn't there been a suggestive undertone in Lestrade's question? He turned around to him but all the DI was showing was an innocent smile, and those big brown eyes were looking at him completely harmlessly. Of course – nobody would guess this, he and Mycroft being a couple. They were, weren't they? They hadn't said those words to each other. They never went out together. And even if they one day did, they couldn’t exactly hold hands or show their affection for each other in public. But… the affection was there. And Mycroft hadn't made any cold remarks about sentiment in ages. Perhaps he would like it if Sherlock told him he loved him… Because he did. He did a lot actually…

“Sherlock?”

Damn, he had totally forgotten about Lestrade. “Huh? Oh, yes. Helps me.” He made a vague gesture with his right hand. “Oh, and George – don't you think Donovan looks different these days?”

“Well, she had her hair cut!”

“Nah, it's more than this!” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and nodded expectantly at the policeman. “You don't think so?”

Lestrade obviously tried to not sigh and roll his eyes, and Sherlock suppressed a smirk and turned his attention back to the body after mumbling he could be wrong.

*****

“It was pretty silly, wasn't it?”

Sherlock looked up from his microscope. “What do you mean?” As if he didn’t know it…

Molly shrugged. “Suggesting… you know what.”

“Oh, that. Not sillier than usual.” She winced and Sherlock raised his hand in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, didn’t mean it like this.”

“Yes, you did.” Molly sighed. “And you're right. I was so silly for so long… You never made me any wrong hopes.”

No, Sherlock really hadn't. He had used her for his purposes, and over the years he had learned to rely on her unconditionally and taken to liking her in a way but he had really not done anything to encourage her hopes at a relationship with him.

“Except for… when you said…”

Not that again! “Molly… You forced me to say it first, remember?”

“Yes, but the second time you sounded…”

“… _and_ you said I should say it like I meant it!” he reminded her mercilessly. Would she ever get over this? Well, would _he_ ever get over Sherrinford? Really get over it?

She stared at him with her huge eyes and bit her thin lip. “I know…” She stroked her hair out of her face. “So all you needed to get better was to develop a better relationship with your brother. Never thought that would work…”

Perhaps it wouldn’t have worked if said relationship hadn't turned out to be quite that much better… “He understands me best,” he said. “Big brother and all.”

“Yes… Everybody thought you can't stand him.”

“Well, so did I. But not anymore.” Not in the least. And he couldn’t wait to be with him later. Sherlock felt like spoiling him rotten tonight. And he had the feeling that Mycroft wouldn’t be opposed to that at all.

*****

“What's that, brother? Are you purring?”

Sherlock sounded greatly amused, and Mycroft grinned into the pillow. “Shut up and go on, Sherlock.”

“Aye, sir.”

And Sherlock, as naked as he was, continued to massage him, loosening his muscles in his neck and shoulders while occasionally rubbing his hard cock against his arse, and Mycroft melted under his skilful ministrations.

Life was wonderful these days. Gone was the feeling of guilt and depression, gone was his overweight, the constant craving for food that clung to one's hips forever.

Mycroft had got rid of it with the help of his treadmill and lots of sex. Never enough of course. He was able now to get it up for a second and sometimes a third round; no more flaccid members here. When they couldn’t meet for a day or even two, he felt as if he had to crawl up the walls. Perhaps he had swapped one addiction for the other but he didn’t really mind as his new one, as painful as it was when he couldn’t have it, was so much more pleasurable and so much less guilt-ridden as he really wasn’t feeling guilty for wanting his brother anymore since it was absolutely clear that Sherlock was as crazy for him as Mycroft was for him.

He gasped when one hand strayed and a finger poked against his opening.

“Somebody at home?” Sherlock mumbled, and Mycroft chuckled.

“No, Sherlock. It's all empty and a visitor would be very welcome.”

“Oh, good to know!” Sherlock disappeared and Mycroft waited for the familiar squeezing of the bottle, and a moment later strawberry-flavoured lube was pressed and worked into him by deft fingers, quickly replaced by something a lot wider, and then Sherlock started to thrust into him, and he found all the right spots on cue now.

They panted through their encounter, Sherlock's breath hot against his neck, and Mycroft started rubbing himself against the mattress, or rather against the soft towel he had placed there. Still he needed a lot of fresh linen but they took care of the laundry during the night so his housekeeper didn’t notice.

So far they had managed to hide the true nature of their relationship from everybody. Not even nosy John Watson had a clue. They still believed Sherlock was visiting him because he was seeing threats, and every day Sherlock told him another anecdote about him fooling John or Lestrade with alleged sightings of Eurus or even Moriarty.

Life was truly and utterly pleasant, Mycroft thought when he had almost stopped pulsing into the towel, feeling his canal being flooded by Sherlock's seed. If they couldn’t go on with their charade any longer, they would find another way to be with each other almost every day. He needed it, and he knew Sherlock needed it to, and not just the sex.

They had not said the three magic words to each other yet though. Somehow Mycroft didn’t bring them over his lips, and neither did Sherlock. But when they looked into each other's eyes like they were doing now, Mycroft could clearly see those words in Sherlock's face, and he knew his brother could see them in his, and it was all fine.

*****

_Hey, brother. Having a good day? SH_

_Splendid. Lady Smallwood hit on me again, the PM has his stupidest day so far, and Sir Edwin is in love and grins stupidly all the time. You? MH_

_Sounds great! Tell the lady if she doesn’t stop that, I'll come along and hit her! The PM, yes, when is the next election taking place? And you don’t do that? Grin stupidly? SH_

_Oh, just solved a case for Lestrade, which was really a 10! He can't stop thanking me, it's annoying. SH_

_A catfight with ES about me? Can I have popcorn? And elections won't change a thing, just give me another imbecile to reign in… And perhaps I do. MH_

_Who is a cat here, Mycroft? I like to think of me as a panther. And you may have a morsel of popcorn. Eating it out of my navel. SH_

_And I think I do too. Right now, while we're texting. SH_

_Good to know, little brother. So do I. But in opposite to you, nobody can see me. Deliciously nasty idea with the popcorn. MH_

_Ah, they are used to all sorts of weird behaviour from me, now more than ever. Just leaving the crime scene. Mrs Hudson called, a client is waiting. SH_

_My busy little brother. MH_

_Your busy little bee. SH_

_Will I see you tonight? Got a meeting rather late, should be home around 8. MH_

_I will be there. With popcorn. Take care. SH_

_And you. MH_

_Miss you. SH_

_Miss you too. MH_

_Miss you more. SH_

_Miss you most. MH_

_Damn. SH_

_Indeed. MH_

Both Holmes brothers were grinning rather stupidly when they stored their phones. Mycroft was all alone in his office so he left the grin where it was for as long as it lasted, and John Watson had long ago stopped wondering about his best friend's mercurial moods.

*****

“Oh, Mr Palmer, I don't think that's a case for us…” John threw a concerned look at Sherlock, who was sitting in his armchair, his hands cramping into the armrests.

“But I'm telling you – I see her!”

“Yes, yes, we believe you,” John said in that soothing voice he probably also used to tell patients they wouldn’t leave the hospital on their own feet anymore.

The old man gestured impatiently. He was wearing a crumpled black suit that had probably been stitched together fifty years ago, his sparse hair was an unwashed mess, and his teeth needed a toothbrush more urgently than Sherlock needed a cigarette right now. “I saw her after she died, thirty years ago! But then I met another woman and she didn’t show up anymore. And now she's back, and she wants to tell me something!”

“Probably that it's time for you to move into a retirement home,” John mumbled with a side look at Sherlock, but Sherlock didn’t react to it.

His pulse had sped up, and he was feeling both wired and unable to even move. This was the fifth case for today; nothing before had been out of the ordinary. One of the female clients had even resembled Eurus, and Sherlock had pretended to be scared of her as he'd had to, but this…

“What did you say, young man?” the old client snarled.

“Oh, nothing. Listen, it's better if you leave now and search for, I don't know, an exorcist maybe? We're not ghost hunters.” John had his no-nonsense tone now and most clients would have now left them alone, cursing and grumbling but knowing they wouldn’t find any help in 221B Baker Street.

But this particular client stayed seated and told them about his first marriage and the gruesome accident that had taken his wife's life, and their children and the two grandchildren; one of them a decent young man with a family, the other one a rogue who just messed everything up and his dead wife was so worried about him…

…and Sherlock only listened with half an ear, trying to find out what had been triggered by the man's story. He didn’t believe in ghosts. The threat that Eurus had constituted had been all-too-real. Moriarty was dead. His messages had been recorded. He didn’t have any relatives; Sherlock had investigated and was sure about it. It didn’t make any sense to feel this wound up by this client's silly claims. And still he was.

He looked at his phone. It was only half past five. Still some time to pass until he would go to Mycroft. He really needed him tonight. He always did but tonight Mycroft had to be what everybody thought he was and was only – a great support for him.

Finally John had complimented the man out and turned to Sherlock. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You could have helped me a bit!”

“Ah, you're a great guard dog, John. Wouldn’t dare interfere with your efforts to chase away the crazy ones.”

“Arsehole.”

“What was that?” Sherlock playfully glowered at him. His heart rate had almost returned to normal after the old man had left, and the playful banter had helped, too, and he knew that had been John's aim.

“I said you're an arsehole!”

“Oh, good, I thought there was something wrong with my ears.”

They grinned at each other, but when John turned to look after Rosie, Sherlock felt the fear creeping back into his heart, as strong as it had been before his life had taken such an amazing turn. And he knew it was silly and he did his best to suppress it.

*****

“Well, I'm not exactly sad about it,” Mycroft said, gathering his stuff together. His head was thrumming, and he was looking forward to a long shower – as the day was hot and humid – and a bit of rest before Sherlock would come to him.

His last meeting had been cancelled as the PM had changed his mind about the topic it had been meant to be about.

“We could have a drink together,” suggested Lady Smallwood, and Mycroft looked at her with narrowed eyes.

“No, thank you. I'd have expected you had realised by now that it was pointless.” He thought about Sherlock's text, threatening to hit her if she kept on hitting on him. It had been a joke of course but how would he feel if he knew someone was constantly trying to seduce Sherlock? Well… Molly Hooper kind of was. But she would never succeed. And still it did irk. And Lady Smallwood's ongoing advances irked him too and they certainly also irked Sherlock, and he had enough.

The lady was staring at him with tightly closed lips.

“I am homosexual, Lady Smallwood,” he said. He had never spoken it out so clearly.

“That’s nothing necessarily permanent,” she said provokingly.

“Pardon?”

“With the right woman, you would realise how good it can be!”

Anthea had been sitting in her own office, typing on her computer keyboard, and through the open door between their rooms, she had of course heard their conversation. Now she got up and joined them while Mycroft was still searching for words, his headache being even stronger than before.

“Which part of the word 'homosexual' did you not understand?” she asked the lady in a perfectly calm voice. Both Mycroft and Elizabeth gaped at her. “It means he likes humans with cocks, not cunts. Get over it.”

The lady blushed a bright shade of pink, which Mycroft hadn't thought possible. “That's… I don't have to listen to such obscenities!”

“Oh!” Anthea made. “But it's okay if you suggest them to him? Again and again?”

“I've never said something that vulgar!”

“But you mean it. And he is.not.interested.”

Without another word, Lady Smallwood turned around and stormed off.

Mycroft turned to Anthea, who shrugged with a smile. “It's not my common choice of words, sir. But sometimes one has to be very clear.” Obviously even Anthea had been irked by the woman's behaviour…

“Thank you,” he said full-heartedly, and she smiled.

“Not for that, sir. And don't get me wrong but you should rather leave. You look a bit… flat.” There was something in her tone and her eyes that made him add to this last sentence in his mind, _'And you will want to be fresh and awake for your brother'_.

He scrutinised her, slightly panicking, but then he realised how silly that was. Even if she had figured it out, and really, he had been in a much better mood than actually ever before since she had started working for him ten years ago and he had lost all additional weight and lately Sherlock had dropped by with a fruit basket for him. And he had never cared about anyone else, and she knew it. And she might not be a genius like him or Sherlock, but she was smart. It wasn't even difficult to figure it out for her.

But she would never turn against him. She had just proven very clearly how protective she could get if he was concerned.

Still there was no way to speak it out so he settled for, “Thank you, Anthea”, earning a smile that said it all.

“Always, sir,” she said calmly, and then she nodded at his umbrella, and Mycroft took it and left the holy halls of Whitehall for today to be fresh and fit when Sherlock would come along.

*****

The headache had only slightly decreased when Mycroft climbed out of the car. He bade the driver goodbye and walked up the pathway to his house. He loved his huge, old-fashioned house, the way leading to the door lined with bushes where the birds were nesting during this time. It was a quiet, peaceful neighbourhood, and it had always felt like a refuge – until Sherlock and John had sent those people to scare him. But now that he and Sherlock had become so close, it wasn't just a refuge anymore – as soon as Sherlock was with him, it felt like a true home.

Mycroft felt better with every step towards the door, and he was looking forward to his thorough shower or even a bath before it was time for Sherlock to arrive. It would ease his headache even more and relax him enough to enjoy the hours that lay ahead of them.

He searched for his key after putting his briefcase under his arm.

And then he tensed. He knew his house and its surroundings very well. And he knew he wasn't alone, and what was coming up behind him wasn't a bird or a rabbit, and it also was not Sherlock.

Very slowly he turned around – and faced a good-looking young man with short black hair he had never seen before, about a head shorter than him. He deduced him within a second – about twenty-eight, holding himself up very straight, and he also was very straight. Not military but close enough. Policeman? Not quite.

A guard. No, ex-guard.

In Sherrinford.

And in his right hand he was holding a gun.

“Hello, Mr Holmes,” the man said in a fake-cheerful voice. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it? The sun is shining, the birds are singing…”

“What do you want?” Mycroft's voice had its Iceman-timbre, but the man just smiled.

“Telling you a story about two people very much in love.”

“I'm not interested in fairy tales,” Mycroft retorted, his mind working rapidly. He knew this man had come to kill him. No matter what he said, no matter what he did. His phone was in the inside pocket of his jacket, out of reach for him. And he would be dead anyway before Sherlock or the police would arrive.

Sherlock… Sherlock with his fears and premonitions concerning Sherrinford… He should have paid more attention to it.

The man's right eyelid twitched. “It's not a fairy tale,” he hissed, already slightly rattled. Mycroft had spoilt his speech he had rehearsed many times in his head or maybe out loud over the past days. “Of course you bloody cold fish don't know a thing about love. But we would have been happy if you hadn't been such a bloody coward!”

Mycroft was deducing like mad, and it didn’t take long. “You were the secret lover of the governor's wife then,” he concluded.

“Her name was Sarah! Haven't you even bothered to find out?”

How could he have missed that? Why had this man not been interrogated? But then he mentally shrugged. He had not been working in Sherrinford anymore when Eurus had played her deadly game with them. So he had been off the grid. A failure that might now cost Mycroft's life. He shook that pointless thought off for now. He had to focus. “She agreed with my sister to be tied up, sure that one of us would shoot her husband so she would be free.”

“Yes,” the man spat out. “You're great at figuring out such things, I give you that. But you were not so great when you were asked to shoot someone so someone else could live!”

“Please! Do you really think Eurus would have let her live? She would have shot her anyway, just like she drowned the innocent Garrideb brothers and then shrugged and asked what was the big deal!” And he realised he truly believed that. Even if the woman had not been a willing participant of Eurus' game, there was no reason to feel guilty for her death any more than about Eurus' messed-up containment in general. Either way the woman would have died.

A flicker of doubt crossed the man's handsome features, but only briefly. “You can't know that! She gave you a task and you failed and now my girl is gone!”

The young man was already trembling with wrath. Perhaps if he made him tremble a bit more, he would mess up the shot. “She planned the murder of her husband. Nice lady. A big loss for the world!”

“You fucking arsehole!” The man raised the devastatingly steady hand with the gun and Mycroft thought that if he regretted one thing in his life then it was that he had texted Sherlock that he missed him (most) and had showed him how much he felt for him but hadn't told him explicitly that he loved him.

The Sherlock who now jumped against the man's back, reaching for the gun that he was surprisingly still holding in an iron grip. They rolled around on the ground, with Mycroft still frozen to the spot as it had all happened so fast. He had not even seen Sherlock approaching.

And then a shot echoed in his ears and he cried out his brother's name and finally moved.

*****

“He's okay,” Mycroft said when John Watson and Greg Lestrade hurried towards him. “He's just getting stitched up. The bullet went straight through his arm and did no real damage.” And still it would mean two more scars on his beautiful body. Scars he had got for him, saving Mycroft's life.

They had not spoken a lot while waiting for the ambulance Sherlock had called already before creeping up on Mycroft's attacker, who was probably still knocked out as he had received blows to his head simultaneously from both Holmes brothers so the police had just had to shove him into their car. Mycroft had been busy tending to Sherlock's wounds, trying to make the bleeding stop. But Mycroft knew enough to be in awe of Sherlock's premonitions and intuitions. He had felt a strong fear and he had somehow known that not he was in danger of being killed but Mycroft so he had hurried to him much earlier than they had planned.

It had brought them together as lovers – Sherlock's alleged paranoia and Mycroft's eating habits and depression. Without them, Sherlock wouldn't have been there to save his life. He had saved him from feeling guilty and low, and now he had saved him from a bullet. All his life he had wanted and tried to protect his little brother, and now Sherlock, who had fought his efforts for so long and only very recently accepted them, had paid his concern back a thousand times today.

“My God,” John mumbled. “This man has so much luck.”

Mycroft had to agree. The bullet could have killed him, and he knew what would have happened then – he would have shot Sherlock's killer, whose name was Darren Palmer according to his driver's licence, and then himself, and this time he wouldn’t have hesitated to use the gun.

He shook the cheerful thoughts off. “I'm going to make some phone calls now. Could you stay with him until I'm back? He must get brought to his room very soon; they said he should stay for one night.”

“Of course,” John said, and Greg nodded vehemently.

In fact Mycroft wanted to give them some time with his brother so they wouldn’t disturb them anymore afterwards. Mrs Hudson was looking after Rosie and wouldn’t come. And Molly Hooper was out of town for tonight.

*****

John watched Mycroft leave. “Dammit, Greg. And I thought he was crazy and paranoid. Instead it seems he's a fortune teller. Well, telling really bad fortune…”

“Not that bad in the end,” Greg said. “Thank God he had this bad feeling and went to his brother and things turned out so relatively positive.”

“Yeah. It would have killed Mycroft if anything serious had happened to him…”

“And vice versa…”

John nodded. “Indeed. Who would have thought? And that for Sherlock, who always thought love was a chemical defect and only for us stupid mortals…” Sherlock, making up being feared for weeks until today. Today it had been all too real, and he had even tried to play it down.

“Yes. Same with the Iceman, huh? Seems caring _is_ an advantage after all…”

“At least if it's your sexy, reckless brother who cares about you…”

Greg chuckled. “If they knew we've figured it out…”

“Mrs Hudson got it before me,” John confessed.

“Women always do…”

“So true. Oh, look who's here! Our hero!”

He smiled when Sherlock, sitting in a wheelchair, gave him a rather nasty look. Then Sherlock looked around.

“Your brother will be back in a minute,” Greg softly said. “He said we should keep you company until he's finished yelling at people.”

And Sherlock smiled. “That’s him.”

How much love could be in two-and-a-half short words, John wondered, and then he and Greg followed the nurse who was bringing Sherlock to his room.

*****

“Well then, see you tomorrow. Try to not catch another bullet until then,” John joked and patted Sherlock's shoulder on the uninjured side.

Sherlock grimaced. “I'll do my best.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock. Brave boy!”

“You should have taken my gun,” John said, seriously.

Sherlock nodded. He had been very stupid to show up at Mycroft's doorstep unarmed. But then – he had not really thought he would face such a situation. For too long he had been told his fears were unjustified and crazy, and he had believed that himself after all, and when he and Mycroft had grown together, he had experienced them less and less, making them up instead to have an excuse to be with his brother. Until today… He should have fully listened to his concerns. “Next time I will,” he promised John, and Mycroft, sitting in the visitor's chair, rolled his eyes.

“There won't be a next time, little brother.”

“Better not,” John said. “Come on, Greg, leave them alone so Mycroft can yell at him.”

Sherlock tensed. There had been a tiny bit of mockery in John's voice… Mockery and… suggestiveness. And then he saw Lestrade's smirk and knew not only John had figured it out. Who else? Mrs Hudson? For sure… If John and Lestrade had noticed it, Mrs Hudson had certainly too.

His eyes met Mycroft's, and he could see his brother was thinking exactly the same, and he looked concerned.

Sherlock turned to him as soon as they were alone. “Don't worry, brother. They obviously don't mind.” And in the end they had unwillingly played matchmaker for them as it had been John's idea to let Mycroft take care of him and Greg had convinced his brother to do it.

Mycroft swallowed and nodded. “Amazing. And Anthea behaved the same way…”

“Oh, great. Is there anybody who doesn’t know it?” Sherlock wasn't worried about Anthea. She was as loyal as they got.

“Hopefully Miss Hooper and Lady Smallwood,” Mycroft mumbled, and Sherlock shuddered.

That would indeed not be good… He was quite sure Molly wouldn’t harm him in any way but he couldn’t say the same about the lady. And it would make his working relationship with Molly even more complicated, and he really didn’t need that.

Mycroft got up and sat down on the bed, taking Sherlock's hand. “He was right – Lestrade. You were a very brave boy. I should tell you it was reckless and insane to risk your life for me. But I'm glad you did, and I'm sorry you're in pain now because of me.” The last words had barely been a whisper.

“Well, I am very glad I did that! It was horrible… Coming there and witnessing this… Such a stupid idiot! And we totally missed it – that the wife was not quite that innocent.” She had played her role as the struggling hostage very well… And in the end she had realised that her plan had not worked so well.

“Yes. But somehow you must have sensed something was odd.”

Sherlock shrugged and then grimaced as it stung. “I can't say I noticed anything. But yes. My unconscious obviously did.” And he thought of the old man with the ghost-wife and his miscreant of a grandson. The grandson who had tried to kill Mycroft. A coincidence? Nothing the man said had pointed Sherlock into this direction. But the universe was rarely so lazy…

“I will never mock your premonitions again, little brother,” Mycroft said and bent down to gently kiss his lips, and Sherlock responded hungrily, ignoring the pain in his arm.

They kissed for more than a minute before Mycroft reluctantly pulled back. “This has to wait. And any physical pleasures have to wait even longer I'm afraid.”

“That sucks…” Sherlock pouted. “But hey, we can still have oral sex if we watch my arm!”

“Yes, that should work… Sherlock… Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, big brother. I couldn’t let some bastard take you away from me.”

“I'm glad. And… I… I love you, little brother.”

Sherlock's heart made a funny jump. “I know. Even if you had… died before telling me, I would have known.” He reached out and stroked Mycroft's face.

The older man gave him a wry smile. “You know me too well…”

“Never too well. And I love you, too.” There – he had said it, and it had been so easy. He would say it again. And again. And then some more.

And he would show his brother that he meant it until the world ended.

“Oh, look into my coat pocket,” he said then, smirking.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows but did as he was told, and with a grin he took out a package of popcorn. “Oh, I'm going to eat that all alone tonight!”

Sherlock glowered at him. “Don't you dare! You'll take it and tomorrow you'll eat it out of my navel just like we agreed!”

“Yes, little brother. It's a shame we can't put it elsewhere right now…”

“Oh!” Sherlock gaped at him. “You pervert!”

Mycroft chuckled. “Saint, Iceman, pervert. What will come next?”

“So much, Mycroft. So much…”

And they shared a smile and then another long kiss, and before Mycroft left so he could rest, they said the three magic words again, and Sherlock knew the times of fear were over now and the times of love had only just begun.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Observant readers might notice that I borrowed from one of my other fics for the ending twist but it fit so well here.
> 
> This will be my last fic for a while at least while I'll be sucked up by real life's demands and figure out what to write next.
> 
> Thanks to everybody who supported this story and me, it is highly appreciated!


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